Remember and be Sad
by Lisa Paris
Summary: He wanted to know who was following him, and more specifically, why . . .
1. Chapter 1

_**Usual disclaimers apply. This story does contain some violence and the occasional use of mature language. **_

_**All the action takes place between the U-boat exploding and El being taken by Keller. It's a kind of 'What might have happened.' The title refers to one of our characters, but is also relevant in a wider sense when considering the provenance of the stolen cargo. **_

_**It's mainly a Peter and Neal story, although El plays her usual sterling self. **_

_**Once again I make no apologies for writing and spelling in English - but I do promise to keep these characters as American as possible. **_

_**Thanks for reading.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Remember and be Sad<strong>_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part One<strong>_

Neal strolled out of the coffee shop and paused for a second on the sidewalk. Ostensibly, he was merely re-pocketing his change, as he glanced up and down the busy street. It was a sunny day and close to rush-hour, people were hurrying in every direction. Nobody appeared to be watching or paying him any special attention.

It was pretty much as he expected.

_Whoever had been following him was good. _

He took a casual sip of the latte and let it scald a path down his windpipe. The fiery heat helped to sharpen his wits and he came to a sudden decision. Turning suddenly, he began to move swiftly, ditching the coffee in the nearest trash can, and pushing through the crowds on the sidewalk, he lowered his head and wove along the street.

It helped he knew the place like the back of his hand. He'd spent enough time scoping out the neighbourhood. When you were limited to a radius of only two miles, it soon became mind-numbingly familiar. Ducking off around a narrow corner, he went down some redbrick steps into a basement. He sank back into a shadowed aperture and pressed his spine against the cellar door. It wasn't a good place to be cornered – there was no where to go, no escape from here - but he had a great view of the sidewalk. He could see but he couldn't be seen.

_Someone was coming_ . . . Neal inhaled quickly, but it was only a couple of teenagers. Barely out of high-school and giggling, they posed no threat as they passed by above his head. A few more seconds and then he heard footsteps. A man strolled around the corner. He paused for the barest of seconds and then stopped and scanned up and down.

Neal waited and studied him closely; early forties perhaps, or maybe older. No particular distinguishing features which made him stand out from the crowd. Bland face, boring clothes . . . _Mister Ordinary._ Hard to describe and instantly forgettable. Unless Neal was very mistaken, they'd never crossed paths before. In the scheme of things, it didn't help much, or explain why Mister Ordinary was following him, and he wanted the answer to that question. _He wanted it quite a lot._

A brief frown creased across the man's forehead, so quick, it was almost imperceptible. He reached inside his jacket for his cell phone and then carried on moving ahead.

_Time to get going. _

Neal knew he didn't have long, maybe nano-seconds to get out unnoticed. He took three steps up and then waited – his head now at sidewalk level. Mister Ordinary was still walking slowly away, talking rapidly into his cell. For the moment he was distracted, it was a window of opportunity. Neal had a gut feeling it wouldn't last long. The man was clearly on the alert. The steps were a temporary hiding place at best, and Neal knew he had to make a run for it. It wouldn't take long to figure it out if the man had a scrap of intelligence. Ten yards to sprint to the corner, and then he would be back out on Main Street. One last look and it was time to chance it. He might not get so lucky again.

_Two long seconds of danger in which he would be plainly visible._

If the man turned around, he was truly fucked. He took a breath, it was now or never.

Neal surged forward and sprinted for safety. Perhaps two seconds had been pessimistic. He grinned and revelled in the adrenalin spike. He reckoned he made it in less.

_Usain Bolt eat your heart out. _

Forging on, he didn't spare a glance backwards as he retraced his route to the coffee-shop. A few people gave him the odd dirty look as he shouldered his way through the crowd. He ignored them and moved on determinedly. This was no time for manners or etiquette. A quick rush of endorphins surged through his veins as he all but forced them aside. He smiled at the heady thrill of it. The chase came to him as naturally as breathing. It was the challenge, the actual fun bit. This was the part he enjoyed. He stopped, and not a moment too soon, ducking swiftly back under the awning. His pursuer appeared around the corner and glanced up and down the street. Neal froze and felt his mouth go dry. He was taking a big risk and he knew it. Mister Ordinary was pretty tenacious and might head back at any time.

The man didn't seem in much of a hurry as he continued to speak on his cell phone. Neal worried about attracting attention as he was forced to keep stepping aside. Too much more of this, and he was stymied. He couldn't hope to stay here much longer. In a perfect world, the man would give-up and leave, accepting Neal had won.

_A perfect world_ . . . the words stung a little.

_In a perfect world, he would call Peter. _

Even now – in-spite of everything between them, he knew the man would still rush to his side. His mouth twisted a little crookedly. Calling Peter was clearly not an option. For all he knew, his mentor was on to him and the tail was FBI.

_Not likely._

He didn't believe it. There was something, call it gut instinct, a sense he might be in actual danger. The hairs were prickling on the back of his neck as he considered the very real irony. It was a lesson he'd learned the hard way – not to _ever_ take anything for granted. Fate was a fickle mistress. She had a habit of rearing-up to bite you. The only man he truly trusted, was the one man he couldn't ask for help.

His tracker turned back towards him, and for a second Neal thought he'd been rumbled. He shrank into the shadows of the awning as the man began moving again. Heart pounding, he considered his options. Thank the lord, the coffee-shop had a back-door. It might draw some unwanted attention, but he could use it as a means of escape. _Not today though._ Today he was lucky, and abruptly, the man changed direction. He stepped up to the edge of the sidewalk and held out his arm out for a cab.

Neal watched as a yellow taxi cruised by and prayed for an unlikely miracle. When it indicated right, he exhaled in relief as it pulled up alongside the kerb. He craned his neck to get a closer look as the vehicle drove right past him, but the man's face didn't jog any memories and was not one he recognised.

He glanced down at his watch. He still had plenty of time, and Moz would be getting impatient. They could conduct their meeting as originally planned, only now without an unwanted audience. It took a while for his pulse-rate to come back down to earth, and he kept a careful eye on his surroundings. He could not take the chance he was being observed or actually followed again. It furnished him with plenty to think about and a growing sense of unease.

_Not FBI_ – he was sure of it – but that left some uncomfortable questions.

He really wanted to know who was following him.

And more specifically, _why?_

* * *

><p>Peter studied the two men opposite him and wondered why he'd been summoned. His boss - Reese Hughes looked distinctly harried and his face wore an air of disquiet. The other man was watching him closely and Peter didn't care much for the scrutiny. He lifted his head with a slight challenge and didn't flinch from the stranger's eyes.<p>

"What's going on, Reese?"

Hughes answered slowly and deliberately. "I've received an urgent message from Washington and this meeting is on a need-to-know basis. They've asked me to screw the lid down tight. It means we won't be using Caffrey on this one."

"My team?"

"You can brief your team as usual, but only on an assignment basis. They don't need to know any details yet, or the finer points of the case."

"_Great_ - " he raised an eyebrow and waited. He hated this cloak and dagger stuff. It usually meant too many all-nighters and keeping secrets from El. "Want to tell me what _this_ _one_ is about?"

The stranger spoke for the first time, in a soft and barely accented voice. "_Genocide._ It's about genocide - and the largest, most successful theft in history. More specifically, it's about a certain U-boat and a cargo of stolen art."

Peter's heart sank and his response was terse. "I don't think we've been introduced."

The man smiled for the first time and held out a hand. "Zahavi - Colonel Rom Zahavi. I've heard a lot about you, Agent Burke."

"All good, I hope?"

"Peter," Hughes interrupted as he saw Peter's hackles rise and forestalled any further sarcasm. "Colonel Zahavi is part of a liaison agreement the FBI has contracted with Mossad. He's part of their restitution department which tracks down art and other property stolen or seized from Jewish owners before and during the war."

Even as he shook the Israeli's hand, Peter felt his gut start to tighten. He had a very uncomfortable feeling he knew what this might be about. The stolen art was no secret and the manifest had long-since reached Washington. It stood to reason they might share it with Israel or the Commission for Looted Art. The booty was probably worth billions - in financial terms the sums were mind-boggling – but there was another, more tragic subtext to this which had caused him a few sleepless nights.

No matter how beautiful the Rubens might be, or how astonishing and vibrant the Dali's, every painting, every item on that manifest was tainted with suffering and blood. It was easy to forget there were victims involved – most had probably been dead for decades, de-humanised by sheer volume of numbers and murdered due to accident of birth.

Zahavi was right about one thing. From a Nazi point of view, the seizure of property and assets had been a lucrative bonus of the holocaust. The list of missing artefacts was staggering but they did trickle down onto the market. Changes in world-wide and European laws had made restitution somewhat easier. The difficulty was finding living relatives or claimants who could prove they had a viable case. Peter had come across questionable provenance before. It was not unusual when working White Collar.

If he was right – if his suspicions were justified – and Neal and Moz had the stolen cargo, then the stakes had become a lot higher and the ante had just been raised. The whole thing was sad and distasteful and a part of him still hoped he'd misjudged them. In his opinion, if they sold the art for profit, they would have traces of blood on their hands.

He nodded and chose his words carefully. "I'm sorry we lost the U-boat. I imagine it would have gone a long way to providing some sort of compensation."

"Not as much as you think," Zahavi was sober. "Compensation is an obvious factor, but it's more about a sense of injustice. No amount of money can bring back the dead. There's no way of making things right."

Peter felt a little nauseous, and guilty by association. "And any chance we had of helping literally went up in smoke."

"Perhaps."

"There's no perhaps about it. I was there, I saw the explosion. When our techs examined the warehouse they found evidence of Nazi packing crates. There were fragments of gilt frames and canvas, and traces of oil paint."

"All easy enough to fake, Agent Burke, as I'm sure you are well aware."

"Are you saying the treasure's still out there?" Peter asked the ten million dollar question. "If so, do you know who took it, or more importantly, where is it?"

Zahavi sighed. "When U-boat 869 left Germany in 1945, she was destined to arrive in Argentina. Many Germans with Nazi connections fled to South America at the end of the war, and were given shelter by sympathetic governments. The stolen plunder she carried was not meant for specific individuals, even though many such funds did get – _shall we say_ – diverted into private bank accounts. It had a far more sinister purpose - to finance a new Fourth Reich."

"Baby Hitlers," Peter murmured, reminiscently, remembering the gruesome stories Moz and Neal had told him. "Surely all those Fourth Reich yarns are simply that – fairy tales, rumours and nonsense?"

"Hardly nonsense," Zahavi spoke sharply. "Like most tales, they have a foundation of truth. In this case, those stories are real. Have you ever heard of an organisation called Odessa?"

"Read the book and saw the film, but isn't it a little out of date now? An underground organisation of Nazis dedicated to creating a new Reich?"

"Ah, my friend, I wish you were right, but sadly, it isn't that simple. In 1944 after D-Day, it was obvious the tide was turning. Rommel had lost to the British in North Africa and the Russian Front was a military disaster. Many Germans began to anticipate defeat and make plans for that eventuality. This was the genesis of Odessa and other similar organisations. A quick and safe transference of assets, and a reliable means of escape. During the last chaotic months of the war, the latter was the obvious priority, but another and very definite objective was the foundation of a new Reich."

"Hence the U-boats?"

"Hence the U-boats. Each one packed with plundered treasure. Some were sunk, others apprehended, and more than one reached its intended destination. Others, like 869 seemed to vanish off the face of the earth, the fate of their contents unknown."

Peter sighed. "Until now. I'm sorry, Zahavi, but why are you really here?"

The Israeli leant forward, his demeanour changed, and suddenly, he was all business. "Mossad monitors the global art world, and someone has been putting out feelers. Discreet enquiries about some of the paintings listed on the U-boat's manifest. Any attempt to move so much as one canvas would cause a massive ripple in the art pond. We think someone still has the cargo, and more importantly, so does Odessa."

"Wait a minute, Odessa's still active?"

"Very much so, and with a new generation of supporters. Fanatics, staunch fascists and Neo-Nazis dedicated to the old regime. I think you would be surprised, Agent Burke, they have friends in very high places, a giant spider-web of contacts all over the world who share their twisted ideals."

"In this day and age? It seems very far-fetched."

"Does it?" Zahavi was almost weary. "This is a new age of anti-Semitism which has its roots in a very different origin; a resentment and hatred of Israel being fuelled by Islamic fanatics. Odessa has done very well out of this. You might call it a supreme twist of irony. Sun Tzu said it well in 'The Art of War;' _the enemy of my enemy is my friend." _

The more Peter heard, the less happy he felt. A pulse beat behind his left temple. Thanks to Neal, he was smack bang in the middle of this, and in a truly awkward position. Nazis and secret societies - the whole thing sounded pretty incredible, but Mossad wasn't known for playing practical jokes, and the Israeli sounded sincere.

He frowned. "Are you saying Odessa is here in New York? The whole thing sounds totally absurd. A bunch of Nazis in search of a treasure which officially no longer exists."

Zahavi paused. "Nonetheless, Agent Burke, Odessa is real and right now they're operating in your city. They're after the same thing we are, but with one very notable exception. They don't care how they get what they want, and will kill for it without drawing breath."

"Apparently, this organisation is quite ruthless in the extreme. It means we need to be on our guard," Reese Hughes didn't sound very happy. "We're the only link to the U-boat now that Adler is dead."

"Not quite," Peter said quietly. "There's Caffrey and Alex Hunter."

"Gerhard Wagner's granddaughter," Zahavi watched them both carefully. "She's been on our radar for quite along time – we're particularly interested in her. Our Intel is fairly certain that Wagner had links with Odessa. As for Caffrey, the man intrigues me. We've had dealings with him in Israel. There was an incident several years ago involving the Dead Sea Scrolls."

_The Dead Sea Scrolls?_

Well, that was a first, but not really all that surprising. Peter suppressed the hint of a smile and filed it away for later. Right now, he had far more pressing concerns. Like his conscience and a stash of stolen art. Stalling for time, he exhaled slowly and wondered how the hell to play things. It was all one gigantic car-crash and he could do with some divine inspiration.

_Caffrey._

The man had a real talent for pitching them headlong into danger. It was time for a little straight-talking which might at least help clear the air. He felt betrayed, uneasy and extremely pissed off, but god help him, still somewhat protective. He flexed his hands under the desk-top, and then pictured them around Neal's neck.

Peter knew he had to stay ahead of the field. Rom Zahavi had just changed the parameters. To voice his suspicions would endanger them all and add an unpleasant twist to the game. _Poor choice of word_ – he shivered a little, there was nothing game-like about it. He was filled with a presentiment of menace as someone walked over his grave. _There it was_ . . . that feeling again, as though the waters were closing in on him. Out of his depth and fighting for oxygen as they rose up over his head. _Great analogy_ – his lips twisted wryly. It was pretty apt in the scheme of things. He wished the cause of his present troubles had remained in its salty tomb.

He really needed some air – to get out of here. He wished to god he'd never heard of the U-boat. The whole chapter was a wretched a nightmare that simply refused to go away. The Odessa thing – he shook his head a little. It was like a conspiracy theory. The ravings of some internet crazy who tweeted the Loch Ness Monster was real. He wasn't sure he was ready to believe in a sinister Nazi society, but Reese Hughes wasn't famous for joking around and the implications posed an unpleasant threat.

He looked up again and met the Israeli's eyes. Zahavi was watching him intently. Peter knew he was under inspection and wondered if he'd passed the test. The man might be softly spoken but his bearing was quick and intelligent. If Neal thought he could take on Mossad, he was playing a dangerous game.

_**TBC**_

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><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Two<strong>_

The night was warm, and El had cooked steaks, serving them out in the small courtyard. There was something to be said for eating _el fresco_ when the air was humid like this. Peter pushed his chair back from the table and played with the stem of his wineglass. The Rioja was as crimson as velvet; as dark and dense as blood. He sighed, there was a lot he should probably be doing, but he was disinclined and feeling strangely somnolent. He needed a proper chance to reflect and it was comforting to be with his wife.

_To think for a second about losing it all, to imagine her being taken away from him . . . _

Damn Zahavi, and damn his treacherous thoughts. It was not like him to be fanciful. He shivered in-spite of the sultry heat as someone walked over his grave.

It was the art and its terrible history. The atrocity and dark provenance of murder. Any chance to make amends had slipped through his fingers. No wonder he felt guilty tonight. _Not just guilty_ – he revised the thought – _but more than a little pissed off. _

Where was Neal and what was he doing?

Bet he wasn't wrestling with _his_ conscience.

He was probably drinking champagne with Moz and planning the rest of his life.

Peter frowned and swallowed the rest of his wine. The Jews were never given an option. Forced to give up their homes, torn away from their loved ones, they had ultimately paid with their lives. He shivered and looked across at El. In comparison to that, the art was nothing. He would sacrifice anything he had for her. _Give up his very life._

"Hey, hon, penny for them?" El chided him gently as she reached for his hand across the table. Her lovely face was serene and softly relaxed, but he could hear the concern in her voice.

He exhaled slowly. "Sorry, El, that obvious, huh?"

She smiled." You could say that."

He might not be allowed to talk facts with her but he could still air a couple of worries. Thanks to Neal, he had a quite a few of them. He reached for the wine again.

"I was thinking about the U-boat and all the people who died for that treasure. It's like some kind of malignant virus – it infects everyone with greed. The Germans themselves and the U-boat crew, and then Kate Monroe and Adler - "

He paused and the words hung between them.

_And finally, Moz and Neal._

"You weren't tempted to lift the odd Rembrandt or two?" El tried to lighten the moment. "Personally, I think his paintings are a little too dark, but I could always find space on the wall."

Peter tried to smile, and then shivered again, as he recalled his earlier comparison. If it came to a choice between a Rembrandt and El then the outcome was never in doubt.

"You know, El, I kinda hate this. I really thought, after that business when Keller snatched me . . ." he exhaled. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she said, shrewdly, "and it bothers me too. I keep hoping that somehow, we're wrong."

He sighed. "It isn't only the Neal-factor, something today got me thinking. That anyone could make a profit from the Holocaust – it makes me feel sick to my stomach."

"By anyone you mean Neal and Moz."

"Yeah," he made a face. "I mean Neal and Moz. That cargo might be worth billions, but it's tainted – stained red with blood. Doesn't it bother them, knowing where it came from, and what probably happened to the owners? _What the hell are they thinking?_ I guess I thought better of them both."

El was troubled. "We still don't know for sure they stole it."

"Maybe not - but I'm damned sure they _have_ it. Let's not split hairs for the sake of semantics. Even if Neal didn't steal it, I'm positive he knows where it is. It's pretty much the same thing in my book. He's still committing a crime."

"Perhaps it's time to come straight out and ask him?"

Peter stared back at her unhappily. "I've given him every opportunity. He's had all the time in the world."

"You believe he'll run – him and Moz – just vanish? After everything they've built up here recently? The way people have opened their hearts to them, all the trust and friendship they've been shown. I don't know, Peter, does it really mean so little?"

"All the evidence so-far points in favour of that. It's hard to think anything else."

"But there _is_ something else," El said, astutely. "Something I know you're not telling me. It's not simply a game of cat and mouse anymore. It's suddenly become a lot darker."

He reflected she was far too clever. She'd sussed him out and not for the first time. _A lot darker_ was an understatement. There was real danger out there. The Israelis were in search of the stolen art in order to begin restitution. In itself, that was disquieting and Zahavi knew more than he'd said. They were definitely aware of Alex Hunter and rightly suspicious of Caffrey. He was probably under surveillance right now, because of his connection to Adler.

_Not just Neal._

It was an unpleasant thought, but there was just no getting away from it. If _he _was a member of Mossad, he would certainly be tailing himself. On that note, Peter took another swallow of wine. He was going to have to be very careful. His gut twisted disagreeably at the thought of them following El.

_As for Odessa . . . _

For some instinct or reason, he shivered, but there was no breath of air in the courtyard. _A secret Nazi society with no scruples and friends in high places_, in-spite of Zahavi's sincerity, he still found it hard to believe. It was almost too fantastic for words - like something straight out of a novel.

"Peter?"

El was apprehensive, and he came to a sudden decision. Whether Odessa was real or not, her safety had to be his priority. She was waiting and watching him carefully, her face shadowed in the lengthening darkness, and he admired the slender curve of her throat and the dusky swathe of her hair. It was there again – that aching stab in his heart – and he pushed away the terror of losing her. Just for a moment, he couldn't help wondering if the stolen art might be cursed.

His voice was husky. "Everything _did_ change today, El, and I'm sorry, I can't talk to you about it. The stakes have become a lot higher. There are other people after the cargo."

"Okay," she was still hesitant. "Just tell me if I need to worry. If things _have_ become a lot darker, then I need to know if you're in danger."

"I'll be careful," he squeezed her fingers. "It might all turn out to be nothing. To be honest, I'm more concerned about Neal. He's at the thin end of the wedge."

"So, it's _Neal _who's in danger?"

"Yes, there's a real chance he could be, and the trouble is, he doesn't know it yet. He thinks he's so smart – so damned clever, but he's bitten off more than he can chew."

"Will you tell him?"

The ten million dollar question. _Strike that – better make it two billion._ For in real terms, on today's market, that must be what the art was worth.

_Was Neal really in danger?_

Peter had a sudden vision.

_The sharks were circling around them in the water, teeth bared and scenting blood._

* * *

><p>Neal studied Peter covertly as they walked through the park by the river. It was a nice day, the sun was shining on the Hudson, but there was no time to relax and draw breath. Apparently, there was no time for anything, or at least, not according to Peter. He was grim-faced and uncommunicative as he strode forth and marched on ahead. Something was wrong in <em>Peterland<em> – that was clearly a no-brainer – something far worse than a spat with El or a lack of devilled ham in the fridge.

Neal's mind spun over the options. He'd been careful and was fairly confident. There were no new signs or trails of breadcrumbs connecting him or Moz to the art. They were close – _so close_ to the tipping point. He exhaled and walked a little faster. In a few weeks he would never have to worry about keeping up with Peter again.

It was an odd thought.

It _should _have been a happy one.

Yup - he should really be feeling ecstatic. A whole lifetime of freedom and luxury, and more wealth than even he could imagine. His mouth lifted and curled sardonically. To paraphrase one of his favourite movies, _he could imagine quite a lot._ There it was – the sudden rush of adrenalin; an unpleasant hollow tightening in his stomach. Neal pushed away the obvious implications. He _so _didn't want to go there.

He _was_ happy.

_He would be happy._

Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire. Neal Caffrey, the king of the grifters. So good at his craft, so consummately skilled, he had managed to con his best friend. No wait, that was Moz. It had always been Moz. Peter was - _Peter was different_. A friend, sure, but more of a handler. God, the term made _him_ sound just like a dog. Neal smiled a little sadly. There was one rather glaring difference. Peter's dog would never betray him. Satch loved his humans with unswerving devotion and would fight for them both to the death.

_What the hell . . . _

Neal stopped walking abruptly, and any feelings of guilt turned to anger. He was a con man, a convicted criminal, so what the fuck did Peter want from him? _Sudden atonement and a lifetime of penitence_? It had never been that simple between them. Outwitting all the fools, and the thrill of the chase, Peter should have known what to expect.

In retrospect, he wasn't like Satchmo at all. The odd scrap of bone wasn't good enough. He was sick of being tied by a figurative leash, and wanted more than a pat on the head. A quick smile flickered across his face. He should have chosen another animal. Something rare and wild and powerful. Peter hadn't quite tamed him yet.

_A leopard never changes his spots_.

Yeah, he really liked leopard. The old adage was far more appropriate. Less clichéd than _King of the Jungle_, and the lone hunter suited his mood. There was something unique about the animal and the way it could adapt to its surroundings. Beautifully camouflaged, smart and versatile, and sleekly designed for the kill. The defiance was good, in-fact it was great, and Neal felt his spirits lift again. He deliberately lagged behind Peter and walked at a much slower pace.

He'd sailed way past the point of feeling guilty and it was too late to develop a conscience. The proverbial bed had well and truly been made; it was done now for good or for ill. Peter was so damned righteous - so sure _his_ way was the only way. Neal knew it was by no means that simple. The man was in for a shock. _Or maybe not a shock,_ he revised the thought. _Better make that a big disappointment. _

One thing he would never be guilty of, was underestimating Peter's intelligence. It was a lot like the words of that cheesy old song – he _knew_ that Peter _knew_ he had the cargo. The cat and mouse game had changed things between them, and any fragile strands of trust had been lost.

_Had it ever really existed at all? _

His gut hollowed out for a second time, and he was forced to acknowledge the emptiness. There was a part of him – the cynical part of him – that thought Peter was a little naive. The decency and clear sense of right and wrong. The man's innate generosity. If Peter had been a cowboy, he would have definitely worn a white hat. Neal sighed, it wouldn't matter much longer. He would be living the life he'd always dreamed of. In a very short time he would prove the man wrong.

_Crime paid and the bad guys won. _

By the time he caught up with Peter again, Neal had regained his composure. He tipped the fedora over his eyes as they sat on a bench by the river. Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the Hudson and made shifting languorous patterns through the trees. It was nice here, there was no denying it, but it wasn't the Seychelles or Mauritius. He and Moz had been looking at islands with non-extradition laws.

"So, why are we here?"

He kept his tone light. Something was clearly bothering Peter. He'd been through all the likely scenarios and had the answers prepared in his mind. _Or so he thought._

Peter was blunt. "Have you heard of Odessa?"

Not the words he'd been expecting and that was a slight understatement. He took several seconds to process the question, and his response was tinged with surprise. "Major seaport on the Black Sea, fourth largest city in the Ukraine. Why?"

"No," Peter said, abruptly. "The organisation, not the city."

Neal wrinkled his brow. "As in the movie _The Odessa File_ or the book by Frederick Forsyth?"

"_As in_ a secret organisation of Nazi sympathisers which still exists and prospers today."

"Peter, oh, Peter, really," Neal smiled and gave a mock sigh. "I can see where this is going. A secret Nazi society? I guess we're back to the treasure again."

Peter turned to him with a suggestion of heat. "You think this is a joke, that it's funny? I don't find it remotely amusing. This whole thing between you and Adler – it's like a snowball rolling downhill. How many people have been killed for that damned cargo - how many more have to die?" He dragged his hand roughly through his hair. "The war ended almost seventy years ago. Too much blood has been spilled over this."

"Adler's dead, and not before time," Neal was suddenly angry. "It's over. Finished and done with. You don't get to lecture me about him, not after what he did to Kate."

"Nice deflection," Peter didn't spare him. "Don't think it lets you off the hook. Kate died because of Adler and his obsession with finding the U-boat. It should have been over when Adler was killed, but we both know it didn't end there."

"So _you _say."

"I'm not the only one. Other people are still looking for the treasure. Some who might have a legitimate claim and others who are far more unprincipled. It might sound like a load of hokum, but the threat from Odessa is real."

"And you know this, how?"

"_How_ I know isn't important right now, but _you_ should realise my source is credible. Odessa is in New York and they're after the cargo. You and Moz need to watch your backs."

Neal shook his head, and slunk down on the bench. He was glad he was wearing the fedora. The brim hid his eyes from Peter's keen gaze and kept his face concealed in shadow. As implausible as the story sounded, he couldn't help feeling slightly uneasy. Someone had definitely been following him and it wasn't the FBI. He'd certainly heard of Odessa but dismissed it as urban legend, and even if it had existed, the war was over a long time ago. The tension roiled in his gut again. Everything was becoming too complicated. It was supposed to be fun, to be easy - not fraught with problems like this.

He sighed, and then had a sudden thought. "Assuming you're right, what about Alex? She needs to know she could be in danger."

"She's off the radar," Peter was still brusque. "Either that, or she was warned in advance."

"Wait a minute, warned in advance? _Oh, I get it, her grandfather was a Nazi."_ Neal's tone was a touch sarcastic and he felt a spark of anger flare again.

"Chances are, he might have been." Peter was sober. "The U-boat crews were Germany's elite and very much Hitler's favourites, but we're not here to have a historical debate about who was or wasn't a Nazi. The cargo didn't belong to them, and it doesn't belong to Odessa. Adler had no right to claim it, and quite frankly, neither do you. It should go to the Looted Art Commission so they can try and make restitution."

Neal shifted a little uncomfortably. "Peter, sad as it is, all those people are dead and World War two was seventy years ago. The art might as well have been treasure trove – if any of it had survived the explosion."

"So that makes it okay?" Peter shook his head. "Or maybe it makes it convenient. There's no point trying to do the right thing because all those people are dead?"

"Peter - "

"What about the few who made it, or any living members of their families? So what if it was seventy years ago, or did _their_ statute for justice run out?"

"Oh, sure, if we lived in a perfect world, but life isn't all rose-coloured - " Neal paused, suddenly distracted, and sat up a little straighter. He had a swift premonition of danger. Someone was watching them from under the trees.

"You were saying?"

"Another time," he spoke abruptly. "To the left, just over your shoulder. There's a man in a tan leather jacket slightly hidden by the row of bushes. He seems very interested in us."

Peter stiffened slightly, and his demeanour changed in an instant. His eyes lost their look of frustration as he switched onto rapid alert. "_Keep talking_," he made a gesture, as though trying to make some point, and then slid his hand inside his jacket and cautiously pulled out his gun.

"What are you going to do?"

"You need to ask? I'm fed-up with this," Peter responded sharply. "For starters, I'd like a few answers. They seem to be thin on the ground around here, and I'm tired of being kept in the dark."

"What should I do?"

"Stay here and get your cell out. Call for back-up when I make a move."

"Be careful," Neal was filled with a sense of disquiet, as he reached in his pocket for his cell phone. In the words of the immortal Han Solo, he had a bad feeling about this.

Peter gave him an old-fashioned look and seemed on the verge of saying something. Indecision vied with second thoughts before he shook his head and turned away. "For once in your life, try and do as I ask. Just call Jones and don't interfere."

"Right," Neal couldn't help sounding sarcastic. "I'll stay and be a good boy, just like Satchmo. Wouldn't want to get in your way." He glanced across to the trees again. The man still surveyed them carefully. Neal saw him stiffen slightly as Peter got to his feet. "Wait, Peter - "

What ever he'd been about to say was lost. Peter was already moving away from him. The action seemed curiously symbolic and he almost reached out his hand. A wave of unease flooded through him. An impression of impending danger. In-spite of all his earlier cynicism, he was without doubt, absurdly afraid. However hard he rationalised it, all the talk of Odessa was unsettling. Initially he'd thought it was just empty threats or a ploy to catch him off-guard. Peter was the smartest man he knew and not above using subterfuge. Even now, this could be part of a set-up. Some clever ruse designed to flush him out.

_Or, maybe, just maybe, it was real. _

Premonition – dark and foreboding - so intense, it threatened to choke him. He swallowed, but the feeling grew stronger. A rising clamour of fear in his veins. His stomach knotted and he remained where he was, body taut with both concern and irritation. He watched Peter closely and took a deep breath as he lifted the cell to his ear. Clinton Jones had barely answered, when everything began to go pear-shaped. Neal barked out a terse order for backup, and then ducked his head and ran for the trees.

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _**_I __started writing this at the end of Countdown and the theme of forgetting who you really are, metaphorically as well as medically, is an integral part of the story and purely coincidental. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Three<strong>_

He was still there when she looked out of the window. At total ease as he lounged by the railings. In exactly the same place as last time, with an excellent view of the house. Elizabeth inhaled sharply and stood to one side, her body half-concealed by the curtains. She knew in her heart he was watching her and began to feel a little afraid. Satchmo snuffled into her hand in a bid for a little attention. When she ignored him, he nudged her again, as his doggy brain sensed her disquiet.

"It's okay, Satch," she backed away from the window and looked around in search of her cell.

Biting her lip, she pressed speed-dial but the call went straight through to answer-phone. Whatever her husband was doing right now, his cell-phone was clearly switched off. She paused for a moment to clear her head and tried to centre her breathing. She wasn't usually so easily alarmed but like Satchmo her hackles were raised.

_Something wasn't right._

She could sense it.

_Maybe something to do with Peter._

He'd been sombre last night and hurt about Neal. That much had clearly been obvious. She'd hated the lines of strain on his brow and the dejected look in his eyes. Her own thoughts were fairly straightforward right now. She was angry with Neal and upset with him. It felt like a major betrayal if he did indeed know where the treasure was, and if he was planning to run with it, he would be letting all of them down. _Not least himself, and that was the irony._ She wondered if he even realised. Was he so caught up in the thrill of the con he would simply discard his new life?

El hoped not – _really hoped not_ – and not least because of Peter. Neal's betrayal would hurt him terribly and might jeopardise his career.

It was hard not to fall for Neal's many charms. They were what made him such a good con-man. He was especially appealing to women. A lethal cocktail of vulnerability and allure. He'd tried to work it with her – _of course he had_ - it was as natural to the man as breathing, but it was never about her, not really, more about scoring points over Peter.

Their friendship had thrown a little salt into the mix and Neal was nothing if not mischievous. Things had shifted and become far more personal as he crossed the threshold into their lives. _Get the Suit's wife on-side,_ El shook her head, _and gain a little edge into the bargain._ She'd been happy enough to join in the game, although her loyalties were never in doubt. Neal could be surprisingly sweet. He was attentive and never boring. He seemed to bring out the lighter, less careworn Peter, which had made her profoundly glad.

_Not lately, though. _She couldn't help sighing. _There wasn't much laughter these days._ Maybe they'd both been too arrogant in assuming Neal could change.

And not just Neal. She was missing Moz and all the comfort of their unlikely camaraderie. The chaotic afternoons in the kitchen when he got under her feet as she baked. He had been happy to be her number one taster – or number two, if you counted Satchmo – but Moz was always ready with a glass of red wine and a far more discerning critique. It was just her and Satchmo lately and the kitchen was a lot more orderly. Since the discovery of that damned Nazi plunder, Moz was nowhere to be seen.

Peter's words came back to haunt her, and a swathe of goose bumps prickled on her skin. He'd called the treasure a malignant virus and she couldn't help thinking he was right. They'd gone way past the stage of a simple cure and she was afraid it might turn out to be deadly. She cared a lot about Neal and Moz was her friend but everything had changed overnight. Neal was wary like a feral cat and Peter was ever more troubled. The tenuous bond the two men had built was imploding in front of her eyes.

She hated the thought Neal was lying to them - either openly or by simple omission - that the lure of the heist was so hard to resist, he could toss their friendship lightly aside. Her thoughts spun around full-circle and she worried again about Peter. However saddened or troubled she felt, it was a thousand times more wretched for him. He'd had enough faith in Neal to place his neck on the line; no wonder he felt so betrayed.

_Peter._

Her heart contracted. These last few weeks had been really tough on him, and El knew the reason why. If Neal really did have the treasure, then Peter would have to arrest him. There would be no _get-out-of jail_ card, no quick fixes or fairy-tale endings. It didn't matter how clever or charming Neal was, he would serve a full sentence this time. As for Peter – they would bury him quietly away in some dreary, back-water division. He was too bright to discard entirely, too fleet-minded for them to waste. Reese Hughes would fight for him tooth and nail but it wouldn't be enough to save him. There were others who would be glad to see the back of him. An ignominious end to his career.

It was enough to make anyone unsettled, and Peter _had_ been distracted, but it wasn't about Neal's duplicity or any threat to the job he held so dear. There'd been something . . . _a sense of darkness._ She'd perceived an undercurrent of danger. El remembered the way he'd held onto her hand and the serious tone in his voice. He was concerned about her. She realised that now, and the knowledge was a little disturbing. Although he'd played down any risk to his safety, she'd felt a wave of menace ripple the air. An iron band tightened around her chest. Her husband had never been a drama-queen. She could count-up the few times she'd seen him afraid on the fingers of one of her hands.

Straightening, she made a quick sweep of the house and checked all the doors and windows, murmuring words of false encouragement to Satch as he trotted around at her heels. Once upstairs, El looked out of the window and saw the man was still by the railings. She sat down on the edge of the bed and tried calling Peter again. _Nothing._ There was still no answer. She scrolled down the list of names on her cell phone. It was more of a relief than she cared to admit when she was answered after only one ring.

"Berrigan."

_Was it her imagination or did Diana sound unusually stressed?_ El felt suddenly self-conscious. _Was she being a little over-anxious? P_eter's team were especially busy right now. She didn't want to waste their precious time.

"Diana, I'm sorry to bother you, but I've tried getting hold of Peter. It sounds silly, and I hope I'm wrong about this, but I think someone's watching the house."

"Keep well away from the windows." It sounded as though Diana believed her. "Stay inside and lock all the doors. I'm on my way over, right now."

"What's going on?"

Her sense of unease grew stronger. There was something she couldn't quite put her finger on. There was a thread of hesitation in the other woman's voice. Alarm bells started ringing in her head.

"I'll do my best to explain when I reach you, meanwhile - "

El didn't allow her to finish. "Is Peter all right?" She already knew the answer. Her heart seemed to freeze as the words tumbled out. "Diana, please tell me he's okay?"

* * *

><p>He was in agony and someone was talking. The voice went on, loud and insistent. God, how he wished they would leave him alone. Every damned word hurt his head. He turned away – <em>big mistake<em> – it simply made the pain worse. The throbbing grew almost untenable. It occurred that perhaps he was dying. Maybe then they would leave him in peace?

They didn't though.

Or at least, _she_ didn't.

He could hear her low tones softly pleading. Eventually, he stopped trying to fight them, and they grew comforting and soothing instead. It was easier by far just to drift with the sound and let it wash quietly over him, but there was something . . . a hint of concern and distress which meant he couldn't let go.

_Someone was missing._

He would have laughed if he could.

The way he felt, that was a given. The darkness was threatening to claim him again. He was lost to the fog in his head. The pounding hurt less if he lay very still. His other senses were working on overdrive. The sharp scent of antiseptic seared his nostrils and the bright lights still burned through closed lids._ A hospital_ - he must be in a hospital. The insight caused a flicker of amusement. He supposed that if he really _was_ dying, then at least he was in the right place.

A hand on his wrist and she was speaking again. Her voice was gentle, kind and melodic. This time, he heard her distinctly, and with a surge of panic, knew it wasn't Kate. Neal forced his eyes open and looked into the face of a stranger. Long dark hair, heart-shaped face - _she was beautiful_ – but she most certainly wasn't Kate.

"Oh, thank God," she broke into a watery smile. "It's okay, Neal, squeeze my hand if you can hear me. You were shot and the bullet fractured your skull. Whoever did it left you for dead."

Well, that explained the pain and the pounding, and it definitely clarified the hospital, but it failed to fill him in on any details, and he still had no clue who she was. A wave of frustration swept over him. He felt vague and ridiculously out if it. _Must be a result of the head injury._ It had scrambled the grey matter in his brain. He went ahead and squeezed her hand anyway and watched her face flood with relief. The reaction was most gratifying and it seemed the polite thing to do.

_Wait a minute._

His vision swung into focus and his heart gave a quick jolt of panic. He might not know her but she wasn't unfamiliar. _Her name was Elizabeth Burke._ He'd studied plenty of photographs and spent enough time watching her – even observing and following her daily routines just to get some kind of feel of who she was. _Not good – this was so not good._ He hurt too much to make any sense of it.

Oh, yeah, he recognised this woman . . . but why in God's name was she sat beside his bed?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He must be in a whole world of trouble. If she was here, then one thing was certain. Her husband wasn't very far away.

"Neal?"

Her voice sounded frightened again and since when was she on first name terms with him? In-spite of all the hours he'd spent watching her, she'd never once had a clue he was there. He was – _or he should be_ – a phantom. Just a face on her husband's case notes. The man Peter Burke had been chasing for a large chunk of his married life.

"Neal, _please_ - "

He opened his eyes once more, responding to her sudden anguish. Considering they'd never been introduced, he was finding it hard to ignore her. Why _was_ that? Neal tried to concentrate, but the effort was decidedly thankless. All it got him was a fresh wave of dizziness and another onslaught of pain. He bit down hard on his lip and rode it, scarcely aware that she'd re-taken his hand.

Any other time, this might have been funny, holding hands with the wife of his arch-nemesis. Right now, he was glad of her comforting grip as the agony pulsed in his head. Somehow he knew that she wouldn't let go and her fingers were like a lifeline. He clung onto them for all he was worth as the darkness edged in again.

_Elizabeth not Kate . . . Elizabeth not Kate._

The universe had spun off its axis. Elizabeth Burke held onto to him – _Elizabeth not Kate._ The thought was frightening and he pushed it away. The replacements weren't really that better. Someone had clearly tried to kill him and whoever it was thought they'd succeeded. Someone had pointed a gun at him. Shot him and left him for dead. For a second – just one crazy second – Burke's face flashed up in front of him. Maybe the fed had reached the end of his tether and decided to call it a day. The idea was kind of funny; Peter Burke, Agent Vanilla. As a fantasy it was almost as likely as the woman now sat by his bed.

"Why are you here?"

There was no point faking. He felt too sick to pretend he didn't know her. He watched as her eyes widened slightly in shock and was surprised at the obvious tell. In some way, his reaction had bothered her. A fine tremor ran through her fingertips. Elizabeth Burke was no actress. That much was patently clear.

"How can you ask," the tremor extended to her voice. "I know things have been . . . _wait,"_ she looked at him more closely. "Neal, do you recognise me, do you even know who I am?"

"Elizabeth Burke," he gave a ghost of his usual smile. "Lovely and very patient wife of Special Agent Peter Burke – but it still doesn't tell me why you're here."

"Oh, Neal." She reached out to touch him and he began to flinch away instinctively, but there was something – a sense of belief and trust – and instead he let her hand cup his face.

Her skin was soft with undertones of sandalwood and he could understand what Peter Burke saw in her. There was kindness and a spark of sudden clarity behind that intelligent gaze. Recognition flickered briefly, like a tantalising dreamlike memory. It was gone in the space of a second as his mind was left floundering in the void. Something was going on here, something he wasn't aware of, but Elizabeth Burke was a part of it and he needed to find out why.

"What's going on?" The query was pathetic and he hated it, but anything was better than not knowing. He flicked his glance across to the door and gave a sigh of resignation. "I take it Agent Burke will be joining us soon?"

She stared at him long and searchingly, as though looking for something in particular. Then her fingers tensed convulsively in his and tears began to form in her eyes.

"I wish he could," she sounded so sad, and instinctively, he wanted to comfort her. "Think hard, Neal – think back as hard as you can and tell me what happened this morning."

"I - " he paused in abrupt confusion. The pulse in his head started thudding. He pushed aside the terror and uncertainty and tried hard to answer her question. Nothing – _dear god, there was nothing._ Just blackness. Not a scrap, not a fragment of memory. His heart began racing with panic as the dizziness engulfed him again.

There were doctors and white coats and nurses and the incessant chime of the monitors. He lay locked in a world of misery and fear as they examined him and moved around his bed. He tightened his grasp on Peter Burke's wife and much to his relief, she didn't leave him. For some reason, she was an oasis of calm, despite the vortex which whirled in his brain.

The next time he woke it was dark outside. He could see the night sky through the window. She was asleep in a chair at his bedside with the streak of dried tears on her face. He had to get out of here – had to find Kate. Maybe she could explain what was happening, but he was attached to IV lines and monitors which effectively prevented his escape. Sitting up, he gripped hold of the cot-sides and waited while the room swung around him. It took a while for the walls to stop swaying and the nausea to die down completely. He took a breath and examined at the monitor. It was controlled by a simple on/off switch, but he knew it was interconnected to a central console display.

"Don't even think about it," Elizabeth Burke straightened up in her chair and looked at him pointedly. "You wouldn't get very far. Reese Hughes has an FBI detail stationed right outside."

Neal leant back against the pillows with a sigh. "I don't remember this morning, Elizabeth. In fact, I can't recall much of anything. I take it Peter finally captured me, but I don't understand why you're here?"

"El – you always call me El," she sounded upset again, "and I figured you couldn't remember. It's the only thing stopping the FBI from tearing you apart."

"You'd better tell me what's going on." His voice was a little husky and he spoke the words with some trepidation. Whatever she was about to tell him, he had a feeling it wouldn't be pleasant. "_Please, El_?"

She inhaled and began abruptly. "Peter caught you more than six years ago and you were in Prison for almost four years."

"Wait – _what?"_

"Please, Neal, don't interrupt me. We don't have a lot of time left and this is hard enough as it is."

He closed his eyes and listened as the whole of her story unravelled. A slice of his mind detached itself as though he was reading a novel. He could sense she wasn't telling him everything as her voice stumbled over the details, and details there were, by the shed-load, but he was expert at hiding his astonishment. At any other time, he might have enjoyed this, if it wasn't for her obvious distress. One person was glaringly absent and he zeroed-in on her exclusion. At no time was she actually mentioned. His beautiful, enigmatic Kate.

_Kate._

She clearly wasn't part of this story and he listened with growing cynicism. If this was some twisted federal scheme, then they hadn't done their homework very well. Some of the finer points were funny, though . . . the ones involving Moz, in particular. It was outrageous to imagine his paranoid friend in cahoots with the FBI.

Peter Burke – he was working with Peter Burke – in some weird parallel universe. Helping Agent Vanilla catch the bad guys to atone for his so-called previous life of crime. He knew a lot about Burke – had made a study of him, in an effort to expose any angles. The man was tiresomely whiter than white and had lived an exemplary life. He drank the odd beer on occasions and enjoyed a glass of red wine in the evening. He didn't gamble or hang out with the bookies and was annoyingly in love with his wife.

Hell, the guy thought he was living dangerously if Elizabeth changed the filling in his sandwiches. He wore black socks under his two for one suits and was superstitious about his _'lucky tie.'_

On the other hand, he was smart as paint, with an instinct Neal had grown to be wary of. In the three years the man had been chasing him, he was often only one-step behind.

_Three years of chasing . . . and four years in prison._

He opened his eyes and studied her face. Elizabeth Burke didn't look like she was lying, and there was no way Agent Vanilla would let her be part of any FBI scam. Nothing she said made any sense to him. There was no sudden burst of recognition. The only thing which made him even hesitate was the integrity he heard in her voice. _He_ was a smooth and accomplished liar – it came as naturally to him as blinking – but this woman radiated sincerity with every soft word she said.

Even so, he would reserve his judgement for now. Experience had taught him to be cagey. He would go along with her story and wait to see how things panned out. She was definitely hiding something from him. Perhaps lying, if only by omission. It would be interesting to see what the angle might be when her husband came into the room.

"What happened to me this morning?"

_It was the ten million dollar question._

"You really don't recall anything? Her blue eyes flooded with anguish as the tremor returned to her voice.

Watching her, a part of him wanted to remember, even if it would be a lie. "No. Nothing at all. I'm sorry."

"You and Peter had a meeting at Riverside Park. There's a bench where you usually go - " she braced herself before continuing. "At nine twenty, you called Clinton Jones for back-up saying Peter was in pursuit of a suspect. When the FBI arrived some shots had been fired and you had been left for dead."

"And Peter?"

"There was no sign of him. Not a trace."

"Witnesses?"

"No one has come forward. Only a jogger who dialled 911 and reported hearing the gunfire. He was too far away to see anything," she faltered and leant forwards in her chair, threading her fingers together anxiously. "This isn't working, is it? I can see nothing is registering. God, Neal, I'm so sorry to push you, but it's been hours now. _I'm really scared."_

He hated to see the despair on her face, and knew then, it wasn't a scam. Whatever else she hadn't told him, he knew for sure she wouldn't lie about this. The Burke's were in love. The question wasn't in doubt and had always rather amused him. That Special Agent, _by the book,_ Vanilla, should have such a fascinating wife.

"What were we working on?" The question almost stuck in his throat. Any other time, it would have been funny. Peter Burke and him as partners – the image was too incongruous for words. "Surely Peter's team must have some idea?"

She hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. "Reese Hughes, Peter's boss, wants to talk to you urgently, but the doctors are concerned about your injury. He agreed that I could sit in with you . . . I didn't want you to be by yourself. There's something Peter was worried about. He thought you might be in danger. Earlier today, I tried to call him because someone was watching the house. Turned out it wasn't the bad guys, but I didn't know _that_ at the time."

Neal frowned; this sounded serious.

_What the hell had he got himself into?_

Elizabeth Burke was quite obviously upset and her behaviour was disconcerting. Her body language suggested a level of closeness he refused to acknowledge as yet, but like it or not, he felt moved by a need to take away some of her distress. He screwed up his eyes and tried harder. Surely, there must be something . . . the darkness was syrupy, like treacle, as he tried to force his way through.

_Lights flashing, fireworks igniting, and then expanding, deep and engulfing._ The cosmos in his skull exploded, and he was jolted by a sudden pulse of agony.

There was nothing . . . just a glimpse of a _leopard?_

The brief flash came out of nowhere.

He was angry, pissed off about something. There was sunlight and leaf-shadow on his face. _A leopard never changes his spots._ As a memory, it was worse than meaningless. Peter Burke had been snatched – might even be dead – and he was the solitary witness. Only trouble was, he couldn't remember. _Could barely see past the pain in his head._

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Lisa Paris - 2012<em>**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: - **please remember Neal's responses reflect the fact he's quite a few years out of date, and to his knowledge, hasn't yet developed the relationships we know and love._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Four<strong>_

He awoke with a jerk of panic and fear, heart pounding with a burst of adrenalin. There was absolute blackness surrounding him. He felt nauseous and bitterly cold. It took awhile to recall what had happened but something told him it couldn't be good. _Scattered images of fear . . . the blunt trauma of fists . . ._ it had all happened shockingly quickly. He lay crumpled where they must have thrown him; face down on the rough stone floor. Eyelids fluttering, he knew he was drifting again, on the periphery of sinking into darkness. He had neither the time nor the luxury. Peter knew he must stay awake.

_Had to think._

It was easier said than done.

His mind was a swirl of confusion. His arms burned with lactic acid and for some reason he couldn't feel his hands. He realised they'd been wrenched behind him with both palms facing outward, the thumbs and shoulders cruelly rotated into twisted distorted positions. _Not good – this was so not good._ He wiggled his fingers cautiously. His wrists throbbed and burned where the nylon restraints had sliced cruelly into his flesh.

Swallowing hard, he tried to turn over and then cried out in sudden distress. The slightest struggle was designed to cause maximum pressure on his hyper-extended joints. _God, oh god,_ he almost threw-up and felt the sour taste of bile in his throat. Whoever had tied the knots was a sadist and a highly skilled one at that. Any rapid or violent force would be likely to cause dislocation, shoulder sockets popping in agony as his limbs exerted force against themselves.

Peter lay still and breathed through his nose as he waited for the burning to ease. He was a lot more careful the next time, log rolling his body in one movement. For a while, he almost lost it, and lay there retching in pain. After some long minutes the nausea diminished, and he concentrated on focusing. He had to get to grips with the confusion and shock, otherwise he might lose control.

_For starters, where the hell was he?_

He tried taking stock of his surroundings – not easy when his mind was so tangled. The air was heavy with damp and decay, and smelled old and strangely familiar. He wasted a few seconds trying to place it before giving up in frustration. The quiet was as oppressive as the blackness and pushed down on the top of his head. He guessed the sensory deprivation was deliberate and the thought was distinctly disturbing; a crude attempt to disorient and frighten him by literally keeping him in the dark. _First rule of torture_, he recalled it now. _Steal your victim's perception of reality._ The second rule was to destruct their identity. He didn't want to imagine how.

To his heart-felt relief, he knew he was alone. It was a small but distinct crumb of comfort. There was no sense of any presence, whether friend or foe, and it gave him a chance to think. _It meant Neal was safe._ At least, he hoped so. Looking back, it was a little hazy. The last thing he remembered with any clarity at all was the sound of some shots being fired.

_Had Neal been hit?_

He couldn't say for sure.

There'd been a van and then he was running. The world had spun around on its axis as it tossed him up into the air. He'd struck hard and rolled across concrete, breath exploding with the force of the impact. Their hands had pulled at him roughly. A bag had been placed on his head. After that, it descended into chaos. He thought that he'd tried to fight them. Judging by the soreness of his ribcage, it had probably been a mistake.

He'd been thrown into the vehicle none-too-gently, skull bouncing a tattoo on the floor. Then someone rammed a needle into his thigh, so deep it seemed to hit bone._ A few moments of absolute terror . . ._ his heart-rate began to speed up again. Peter clenched his jaw against the memory as he wondered why they wanted him alive.

With any luck, Neal would have noted the plates.

Even now, the FBI would be onto it.

Logically, he knew he was grasping at straws, but what the hell; he'd take what he could get. He tried to guess what drug they'd given him, maybe some kind of hallucinogenic. Just enough to induce near paralysis and keep him confused and subdued. He shivered and it wasn't just from the cold as he thought about what might lie in store for him.

_Was he capable of enduring torture?_

It was one of those rhetorical questions. The kind that most people ask themselves. Would he succumb and betray his comrades or stay silent and withstand the torment?

_Talk about melodramatic._ He had the grace to feel a little embarrassed. It must be the pain or the effects of the drugs still messing about with his brain. There was no point getting carried away. He had no idea why they wanted him. Damn Zahavi, this was the Israeli's fault, and all his lurid talk of Odessa. His head was filled with Nazis and jackboots, and all the horror those old images still retained.

He wasn't usually so over-sensitive, but there was no doubt this case had moved him. All the death and despair the U-boat plunder had caused. And not least, the loss of a friend.

_Had he lost Neal?_

_Did he ever really find Neal?_

For the life of him, he didn't know the answer. It was hardly the right time to consider it. He was being dramatic again.

Peter closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. He wasn't going to help himself by lying here. There was a small chance they had simply dumped him, and for El's sake, he should try and escape. _Don't go there . . . don't think about her._ He couldn't let the wash of guilt pull him under. _Mustn't envisage her grief or imagine her fear._ Not now when there was so much at stake.

Grunting, he fought through the agony and managed to push himself backwards. His progress was almost unbearable, but at long last, his head struck something hard. He stopped and took several short puffs of air while his poor shoulder joints shrieked in torment. Sitting would relieve some of the tension. He almost smiled at the irony. Digging his heels in, he thrust his hips upwards and nearly passed out with the pain.

The wall provided a little support and in due course it became somewhat easier. Shivering with effort and misery, he rested his head on his knees. He was tempted to let go – to drift awhile. He was so tired and his mind was still swimming. The concerted exertion and strain on his joints had set all his muscles on fire. _Five minutes wouldn't hurt . . . just five minutes._ He waited for the aching to die down again. The only sound he could hear was the rasp of his breathing. The silence, like the gloom, was complete.

When he awoke again, he realised some time had passed. Certainly longer than five minutes. His injuries had stiffened with bruising but he wasn't quite so groggy anymore. _Cowboy up._ The thought was involuntary, and Peter smiled briefly in the darkness. The words were strangely uplifting and he determined to take his own advice. Cursing the man who had tied him, he groped for the wall behind him. His hands felt swollen and useless and the tips of his fingers were numb.

Brickwork – it was definitely brickwork. He was in some sort of man-made structure. The darkness was so intense and overwhelming, he had wondered if they'd left him in a cave. The confirmation wasn't much use to him but paradoxically, it was slightly comforting. New York was riddled with cellars and tunnels; with any luck, he was still in the city.

So if this was a room, then there must be a door. It was simply a question of finding it. With all his limbs trussed like a turkey, it was easier said than done.

Talking of doors – one slammed somewhere above him. He heard the voices of several people talking. Judging by the echo of footsteps on stone they were descending a set of stairs. _This was it then, they hadn't abandoned him._ His heart raced with a burst of adrenalin. There was a rattle of chains and the turn of a key and a door opened off to the right. A pair of flashlights cut through the darkness and the sudden blaze of light was blinding. The beams skimmed across the floor and then found his face as three men entered the room.

Without a word, they grasped hold of him, with no respect for his tortured muscles. He began to struggle instinctively, his bruised ribs shrieking in pain. One of them cuffed him around the side of the head and he sagged momentarily between them. They dragged him across to the centre of the room and sat him down on a wooden chair. For a second – _one wonderful second_ – the complicated rope work was loosened. The pressure on his joints was blessedly relaxed as they re-tied his arms and ankles to the chair.

The room was flooded with electric light as somebody flicked a switch on. Peter flinched from the yellow-brightness, but at least it meant he could see. He was in some kind of vaulted cellar with stone arches curving above him. The brickwork looked old and neglected with empty alcoves set back into the walls. There were no windows or vents near the ceiling, and the sole door was set back in the corner. Although his sphere of vision was limited, it seemed like the only point of access. To his dismay, it looked old and sturdy, made of heavy wood, probably oak. Other than the chair he was sitting on, the room was devoid of any furniture. His mouth dried up completely when he saw the faded bloodstains on the floor.

"Agent Burke." Another man stepped forward. His voice was American and cultured, and he was wearing a thousand dollar suit. He closed the door carefully behind him, and moved around to stand in front of the chair. "It's good to finally see you awake. During the time you've been out of it we've moved you away from the city. The FBI will find it difficult to track you. You've been unconscious for nearly two days."

Peter looked up slowly and shook his head. "I'll bet, more likely a couple of hours. You won't fool me with that old chestnut. Tell me I'm out of the city and make me think there's no hope of a rescue. Makes it seem like resistance is futile, and therefore, I'm likely to talk. _Interrogation training 101 – the FBI once sent me on a course._"

The man chuckled softly. "Really, Agent Burke, you think I'm playing mind-games with you? I wouldn't insult your intelligence with such crude and amateurish tactics."

"Talking of mind-games, who are you, and why am I here – and don't pretend _here_ isn't still in the city. If I'm right and you represent Odessa, then you need me on hand in New York."

"I'm really a little disappointed. You know precisely who I am and why I want you, but for now we'll play the game by your rules. My name is Anton Schiller. I'm a businessman and a patriot in much the same way, I would imagine as you are. Although we might use a different MO, I believe we want similar things."

"I don't think so," Peter spoke bluntly. "Both my grandfathers stormed the beaches at Normandy to help destroy the ideology you support."

"Good men, I'm sure, but misguided, and lied to by those who run this country. So many wasted American lives. There was no need for those men to die."

"First Europe and then America, that was the Nazi plan, wasn't it? But first you had to occupy Britain to gain straight access to the Atlantic. It must have really fucked things up when they got stubborn and decided to fight back."

"It's history," Schiller sounded regretful, "and now we must look to the future. This brings me rather neatly to the matter in hand. The whereabouts of U-boat 869."

"You said no mind-games, remember? You know damned well it went up in smoke."

"And you were there, Agent Burke, I read the report. Destroyed along with all the contents, but since then you've been very active looking into the world of stolen art."

"I lead a team on the White Collar division. Stolen art is part of my job."

"A long-lost Degas, for example, and other items listed on the U-boat's manifest. Surely a colossal waste of time, unless perhaps, the treasure still exists?"

"It doesn't," Peter tried to sound defeated. "I was simply double checking. Keeping an eye on the markets for a period of time merely as a matter of routine. You'll see I also went over the forensics again, _if you re-read the report."_

Schiller smiled. "I did, several times very thoroughly. It makes for most interesting reading. I especially liked the parts concerning Caffrey. A – _shall we say_ – versatile man? I looked into your relationship. You've been working very closely together. Someone like Caffrey could be incredibly useful if the right opportunity came along."

"You think Caffrey and I stole the cargo together?" Peter snorted. "You must be delusional."

"I _think_ you saw the chance of a lifetime. You were tempted and decided to take it. After all, Agent Burke, let's be honest. How much does a federal agent get paid?"

"Enough to veto a lifetime in jail," Peter was glad of the digression. He was worried about Neal's whereabouts, and wanted to deflect the conversation."And talking of the FBI, what happened to my team-member. He was there when your goons snatched me. The guy I was with in the park?"

With any luck they hadn't known it was Caffrey. Either that or they were playing him. He needed to tread very carefully here before Schiller revealed his full hand. Neal was smart – he would have seen what was happening and put a call in to Jones or Diana. He was probably out there helping them now . . . _and not locked up in another room nearby._

"It was only you we wanted alive. My colleagues had very strict instructions. Unfortunately, your team-member was expendable and we chose to leave him behind."

Peter felt sick. "You shot him?"

"I'm rather afraid we did."

* * *

><p>There was something about Rom Zahavi which made Neal feel highly uncomfortable. The man's face seemed open, even friendly, but a fire burned within his dark eyes. They were a hawk's eyes, fierce and far-seeing, and the description was a little unsettling, both uncompromising and deadly as they zeroed in on their prey. It made Neal instinctively wary - he had a feeling they didn't miss much of anything - that the man had an insight into his soul and would see straight through any lies. By comparison, Reese Hughes was more openly hostile, but his emotions made it easier to read him. The FBI boss was clearly worried, and at the end of an extremely short fuse.<p>

Neal couldn't help glancing at Elizabeth Burke, _or El,_ as she'd urged him to call her. On the whole, she was holding up pretty well, although cloaked in a mantle of fear. He was drawn to her – really admired her. She was a rock in the face of uncertainty. From the moment he'd woken confused and alone, she'd barely agreed to leave his side. He wasn't stupid – of course, he wasn't stupid. She was frantic about her husband. On the other hand, he appreciated her company. She'd been patient and unfailingly kind.

She was leaving now, though, just as they'd requested, her hand hesitating on the door jamb. Her parting smile was meant to be uplifting, but her bottom lip quivered instead. He watched her go with something like sadness. There was nothing he could do to help her. His memories were still shrouded in darkness, locked away behind a wall in his mind.

"A brave lady," Zahavi was perceptive. "It would be nice if we could reassure her. Perhaps with a little encouragement, we can bring Agent Burke home alive."

"You know who has him." It wasn't a question. "In that case, how can I help you? You've already spoken to the medical team so you know I'm a little behind."

"So you say," Reese Hughes cut right to it. "We _know_ your skull is definitely fractured. We only have your word for the memory loss. Guess it doesn't show up on the x-rays."

"If everything you've told me so far is true, then what would I gain by lying?" Neal answered back with frustration. He gestured down at the device on his ankle. "Apparently, you monitor my every movement, so you must know exactly where I've been."

"Shall we continue, gentlemen?" Zahavi spoke to them both patiently, as though dealing with two quarrelling children. "It's a long story, and we don't have much time. It begins at the end of the Second World War when the Germans saw defeat was inevitable . . ."

Neal closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillow as he listened to the unravelling tale. The gist of it wasn't new to him although the subject matter took him by surprise. The stories surrounding the lost Nazi U-boats were truly the stuff of legends. To discover one still loaded with cargo, still intact with the treasures they'd plundered . . . it would be like finding El Dorado or the gold at the rainbow's end. When the Israeli first mentioned Alex and Adler he was really glad he had his eyes closed. It took every single ounce of concentration not to let his thoughts show on his face.

The new Neal – the new him – _whoever he was,_ must truly have a couple of screws loose. He wondered what else they knew about him. Which took his thoughts right back to Kate. Elizabeth, _El, _hadn't referred to her, and no-one had so much as mentioned her. Coldness spread through the centre of his belly and he began to feel a little afraid.

_Was she out there in some kind of danger, while he was trapped in this bed?_

All roads seemed to lead back to Peter Burke. The man must be some kind of Svengali. So what if they'd been working together? He found it hard to believe they were friends.

_And yet . . ._

Elizabeth said so.

In his heart, he knew she hadn't lied to him. His skin prickled with a wash of deja-vu as he tried to conjure Burke's face. Strong and surprisingly mobile, with a square jaw which hinted at stubbornness, the man was handsome if a little careworn, and there was kindness in those whisky-coloured eyes. It was a face he knew well. He'd made a study of it. He knew all the expressions and nuances. He'd seen sadness and humour, even anger . . . and now he probably wouldn't see them again.

Neal opened his eyes and looked straight at Reese Hughes. "Let's get this straight, you think I have the cargo. That somehow, I managed to steal it. Mossad, Odessa, the FBI . . . and what about Peter Burke?"

"Peter Burke has a level of faith in you. It's why you work as his consultant. The only reason you aren't back in your cell is because of _my_ faith in him."

"Nice to know," he bowed his head mockingly.

He didn't know why the answer was important, but it was, and that was the strange thing. A part of him hoped he was innocent, and that Peter Burke's belief was well-founded. Other than that, he was in a whole world of trouble, even if he didn't have the cargo. There was nothing he could do to help Agent Vanilla. There was no easy way out of this.

Damned if you do, and damned if you don't. It was all looking pretty bleak for him. He regarded Zahavi levelly, looking into those bird-of-prey eyes. "Israel wants the cargo. I'm guessing to make restitution. You must have some leads on Odessa, where they are in the city, and who's funding them. Follow the money, I would follow the money. It usually leads straight to the heart."

Zahavi nodded. "We've been following _you,_ Mister Caffrey, and I must say, you've shown ingenuity. There's been nothing - no direct activity to connect you to the U-boat cargo. We also kept a close eye on Mrs Burke, just in case she might be in danger. There was a good chance Odessa might grab her, but they snatched her husband instead." The Israeli glanced across at Hughes. "Please convey my apologies to Mrs Burke for frightening her earlier today. My agent has been duly admonished."

Hughes gave an abrupt nod. "In the interests of future cooperation, it might be better if you keep me informed. There's a little too much at stake here to be running around at tangents." He switched his gaze and stared hard at Neal. "I don't know whether or not you're lying, or if this is some elaborate kind of game. What I _do_ know is that Peter Burke has faith in you, and we need to bring him home to his wife."

"I'll help you as much as I'm able," Neal acknowledged him tiredly. He put a hand up to massage his temple as the dull throbbing started again. There were breakers crashing through the veins in his skull and pounding at the shores of his consciousness. He needed - _really_ needed to get out of here, but there was something badly wrong with his head.

There was a part of him – the sceptical part of him, which still wondered if this was a scam. Plundered Nazi treasure was a hell of a hook to a man with his reputation, and the thought of all those lost masterpieces was pretty hard to resist. The Germans had looted and pillaged through Europe stealing its rich heritage of art-works; either stripping them away outright, or acquiring them through fire-sale tactics.

The Third Reich took anything of worth it could get its avaricious hands on. Paintings, sculptures, artefacts and jewellery, and a vast hoard of valuable antiques. Any available item of worth was stripped from every conquered country in Europe, and either shipped back to German museums or simply stolen for personal gain. The scale of the theft was quite staggering, and post-war chaos hadn't helped restitution. Much of the art had simply vanished and provenance was a nightmare to prove. Many Jewish families had been totally wiped out and there was no one left to claim their stolen property. A terrible legacy of what one might argue was the most successful art theft in history.

_Did he really have the art – had he stolen it?_

It would mean unimaginable riches. The freedom to live anywhere in the world, and a fresh start for him and Kate. _Almost anywhere,_ he added a caveat. New York was obviously a no-go. It would have to be somewhere a little more creative and well out of Peter Burke's reach.

_Peter Burke._

The man was in danger. Or at least if he believed their story. Kidnapped by some latter-day Nazis and the treasure was the price on his head. There was a voice he refused to acknowledge, a tiny devil chipping at his psyche. If he could get clean away with the plunder, he would be killing two birds with one stone. Money and wealth beyond his wildest dreams and no Agent Vanilla chasing after him. _His_ world might open up like an oyster shell, but Peter Burke would probably be dead.

Neal put the tiny devil carefully away. Too many people had died for this treasure. However tempting it might be to get rid of Burke, the agent's death was never part of the agenda.

He had a sudden image of himself painting, blending pinks and greens together to make flesh tones; the long careful strokes and delicate curve of a ballerina's graceful arm. A Degas and he had been copying it, the brushwork subtle and impressionistic. He could taste the heady scent of the linseed oil which hung like a cloud in the air. The vision faded like a smoky apparition. Sliding out of reach before he could grasp it. He recognised the painting in question. It had been missing for over sixty years.

He needed Moz and he needed him fast. The lack of knowledge was eating away at him. It felt as though the memories were mocking him like the tantalising fragments of a dream. If he had the art – _and the thought blew his mind - _there was no doubt Moz would be in on it. _Moz would know - would be able to help him._ The little man was his best friend and accomplice. If it was true, if he'd lost a large chunk of his life, then by god, he had to get up to speed. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and Peter Burke was still missing. There were so many things he wanted to ask -

_But first, he had to know about Kate._

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: - **Thank you for the reviews and favouritings, they are all very much appreciated. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Five<strong>_

He awoke to a pail of icy water. The shock of it violent and brutal. His neck jerked backwards in violent reflex and he cracked his head against the stone floor. He lay there drenched and shivering, watching them circle around him like sharks. A part of him was tempted to close his eyes and try and block out the inevitable. Another part, the stubborn part of him, made him glare at them defiantly instead.

"Get him up."

Schiller's voice, firm and authoritative. The man sounded calm and in his element. Two pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him back onto his feet. _Pain dazed him._ Pain in his shoulders and chest. The level of it stunning in intensity. His knees buckled and the room swung crazily as someone grasped hold of his hair.

Leaning forward, Schiller stared long and hard at him, and then pursed his lips as if still dissatisfied. Whatever the bastard was looking for, there was apparently no sign of it yet. He sighed as if a little regretful and shook his head with gentle resignation. Then, taking a careful step backwards, he nodded to the three goons again.

They worked on him efficiently, like a well-oiled team. Two to hold him and one to hit him. Peter let his head roll forwards as the heavy fists battered his face. Evidently, they knew what they doing, well enough to split skin and bruise muscle. As much as necessary to tear his hold on reality as a knee thudded into his groin.

Time blurred into seconds, _minutes,_ marked only by the rhythm of their punches. Peter retreated inwardly as he desperately sought to escape. He couldn't run from them physically, but there was still a way to deny them. He slumped forward, unresisting and boneless, and withdrew to a space in his head.

_There was sunlight and a faint scent of sandalwood, the fragrance both subtle yet elusive. It was there in the dusky trail of her hair as he buried his face in her neck. She was smiling and a little roguish, eyes smoky with love and wanting. They would change in a second to dark and intense as they always did when they made love. Light and shade and the dapple of leaves on the wall, the warm ivory of muted flesh tones. The feel of her pressed urgently against him and the taste of her skin on his lips . . ._

"Agent Burke."

The reflex action of ammonium carbonate and a burn which seared the inside of his nostrils. They were forcing him, dragging him out of the dream, to a world filled with darkness and horror. However futile, he panicked and fought them, trying hard to twist away from the smelling salts, but Schiller thrust the bottle back under his nose and he inhaled the chemicals again.

They hauled him to his feet and across to the chair, kicking his legs out from under him. The wrench as they pulled back on his shoulder joints made him cry out in pain. Blood dripped on the flagstones from various cuts and Peter guessed his nose was broken. He was forced to take shallow breaths through his mouth in an attempt to stall the pain in his ribcage. It was harder, much harder to open his eyes. The swelling made the lids feel like silicone. As though someone had opened a valve in his face and pumped in a load of hot air. He blinked up at Schiller blearily, but the man refused to swing into focus. _A concussion,_ he hoped, _he could recover from that._

_A detached retina would end his career._

Always assuming they let him go, of course. The thought was bizarrely humorous. He'd known from the start they would kill him. Barring a miracle, it ended here. He did smile then, couldn't help it, knowing they would probably punish him. Better go to down fighting, with a small shred of honour intact.

"I'm glad you still see the funny side," Schiller didn't sound quite so tolerant, in-fact, his tone was tinged with impatience. "Save yourself any more distress, Agent Burke, and tell me where you and Caffrey hid the treasure."

Peter thought he must be light-headed, but the irony was almost too delicious. His partner knew the answer to that question, but thanks to Schiller, Neal was dead. Moz was in on the theft - he was damned sure of it, but the man had slipped under the radar. With any luck, Peter hoped he would stay there. It would save El a little more heartache.

The cargo – the damned Nazi cargo. He'd known from the start it was trouble. Worse, much worse, the treasure was cursed. It was tainted with blood and death. There was no point lying to buy any time and no one he was prepared to incriminate. He had faith that Reese Hughes would eventually find him, but rescue would come far too late.

_If Caffrey was alive . . ._

His throat tightened. There was no light at the end of that tunnel. The sense of grief crushed the air out of his chest and hurt him more than the physical torture. If Neal was alive, then he would save him, despite all their current difficulties. Peter didn't doubt it for a second. He would find a way out of this mess. But Neal was dead, gunned down in the park. His life ended quickly and brutally. All the brilliance and promise and scheming snuffed out like a dancing flame.

"Burke," Schiller forced his chin up. "Tell me where the cargo is?"

"Destroyed when the warehouse exploded. I don't have it, I never did."

"We both know the cargo wasn't destroyed. Put an end to this, tell me where it is?"

"_I don't,"_ Peter slurred, it was difficult to talk. He tried again; "I don't have it?"

"Maybe I should ask Caffrey? Or, I would if anyone could find him. I have my men scouring the city, but he appears to have vanished off the grid. Perhaps the man double-crossed you?" Schiller tilted his head and mocked him. "After all, it's how he makes a living, and a leopard never changes his spots. Took the treasure and made a run for it, after throwing his partner to the wolves."

Peter felt his muscles tense with anger. Even now, when things had soured between them, he knew Neal a lot better than that. He raised his head in-spite of the agony and stared Schiller full in the face. "He wouldn't just abandon me, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, come now, the man's a con-artist. You're not the first and you won't be the last, to fall for his lies and tricks."

The words pierced him as much as intended, but not for the reasons Schiller hoped. Peter knew Neal was a better man, and he had proved it in spades after Keller. Sacrificing the emerald in exchange for his life had been one hell of a statement. Not for the value of the stone or the worth of the ring, but in saying goodbye to his dreams. And Neal had done it for him – for Peter. Stepped up and confronted his demons. He'd been prepared to make a crucial gesture by forfeiting his last link with Kate.

It had all gone terribly wrong after that. The Nazi plunder had forced a wedge between them. It was the ultimate prize – the billion dollar haul and he was certain Neal had somehow acquired it. He closed his eyes feeling beaten, almost too tired to think. The strain of the last few months had affected him badly, a darned sight more than he'd realised. The level of anguish took his breath away, and he was aware of the terrible quirk of fate. The curse of the treasure had struck again and added another life to its bloodstained tally.

_Neal Caffrey was lost._

It was crystal-clear and maybe it had always been inevitable.

Either the lure of the con or the sparkle of gold, or the awful finality of a bullet. There would be no reprieve this time, no light at the end of the tunnel. Even if by some miracle,_ he_ managed to survive, Peter knew he couldn't change things. There was no going back from this one. He could not raise the dead.

The raw ammonia assaulted his nostrils again and he realised he had been drifting. It was better than the pails of icy water but the shock of it still made his head spin.

"I'm getting tired of your misguided loyalty," Schiller rested a heavy hand on his breastbone. The pressure made him exhale in agony as his ribs seemed to hitch in his chest. "So far, this has all been straightforward, but I'm afraid there's a limit to my patience. If you persist with this stubborn attitude then I might be forced to seek another way. Odessa has been watching you for several weeks. We know where you live and all your habits. Most evenings, usually between five and six, your wife takes the dog for a walk."

"Leave her out of this," Peter pushed back against the flat of Schiller's palm, regardless of the ominous shift in his ribcage. The anger and pain forced tears to his eyes and to his shame one ran down his cheek.

Schiller smiled and took a step backwards, clearly pleased by the first sign of real weakness. He stared down at Peter and pursed his lips thoughtfully as though making his choices from a menu. The world had altered exponentially between them and not for the better either. Elizabeth was in the equation and Schiller had the psychological advantage.

"That ball is well and truly in your court." Schiller moved out of Peter's line of vision and placed an oddly genial hand on his shoulder. "May I suggest you consider your priorities, but in the meantime, I have some other business. I'll leave you with my associates. They might help you make up your mind."

"Schiller - "

Neal was dead and out of Odessa's reach. There was nothing they could do to hurt him. Regret twisted hard, like a knife in Peter's gut, but it was too late, his friend was gone. If he told Schiller the truth, it would get tougher for him and negate his main function as leverage. Schiller didn't really expect him to talk despite the brutal beatings and threats. He was merely the bait, the tethered goat, being used to lure Neal into the trap. He shivered at the implications and his thoughts swung back to Elizabeth. Schiller didn't strike him as a patient man, and he would want this business quickly concluded. If they couldn't find Neal, then El was in danger, and the risk was increasing by the minute. Peter knew the stakes would get higher when Schiller failed to contact Neal.

_Neal._

He was out of harms way now. _Christ, how worn-out the old cliché sounded._ How much better to be alive and still in harms way, then at least he wouldn't be dead. Peter felt sick and dizzy again as a feeling of hopelessness washed over him. As of now, he had a single priority, but he was finding it hard to stay focused. The Nazi U-boat wasn't important and the damned cargo no longer mattered. It had caused so much suffering, so much avarice and death, and he bitterly wished Moz the joy of it. Even now, he suspected, the little man was out there, making plans and celebrating his victory. Would he feel the same when he discovered what happened, and would the stolen gold hold so much lustre? Peter wondered how long Moz would grieve for his friend when he found out Neal was dead.

_Neal was dead and he was good as_. Peter knew how Schiller would play it. The man had made no attempt to conceal his identity and had casually confessed outright to murder. Not the actions of someone willing to compromise or leave any witnesses behind. Peter squinted down grimly at the flagstones. The bloodstained floor told its own story. Nobody held here against their will ever left the cellar alive.

_The only person who mattered was El._

He'd thought the same the other evening in the courtyard.

_He would sacrifice anything he had for her._ _Give up his very life._

They pulled him up out of the chair again, despair and fear like ice in his veins. He had a few seconds to brace before the beating began, and he dropped like a stone between them. The lights flickered or perhaps it was his vision as he curled into a ball on the floor. _Not much more,_ he couldn't take much more of this, no matter how trained or expert his assailants. His last coherent thought was of El, and a desperate hope Hughes would protect her.

* * *

><p>She was there again when he opened his eyes, her silhouette in sharp relief against the window. Her hair was edged blue like a raven's wing, her face pale in the morning sunlight. <em>Elizabeth, not Kate.<em> It was Elizabeth, not Kate, and for a moment he could hardly bear to watch her. He didn't care how beautiful, how sad or brave she was . . . she merely hammered home the fact he'd lost his love.

In the end, it had been her who'd told him. He guessed she was the only one brave enough. Or the only one gentle and kind enough – the only one they thought he'd believe. He'd spared a second to notice her grief and wonder if they shared too much in common. It took incredible courage to break such news to him, when even now, her husband might be dead.

_Like Kate._

Like his beautiful Kate was dead.

He knew Elizabeth wouldn't lie to him. The heartache and appalling emptiness surpassed the pounding spike in his skull. It was like being caught up in the rings of hell or something out of Dante's inferno. He was trapped in a strange loop of time and events in which everything led back to Vincent Adler. The man was both beginning and end; a predetermined Alpha and Omega. Adler had them all dancing like puppets and tied up in his strings of fate. Neal supposed he ought to be grateful that Agent Vanilla had killed him, but part of him still wanted Adler alive, so he could go after him instead.

He wondered why he hadn't done so before.

After losing Kate the first time.

He looked again at Elizabeth Burke. For a brief moment her face was unguarded. It was anger and grief, desolation and loss, all the same loneliness which surged through his veins and ate away at the viscera inside him. Kate was gone and he would have to deal with the pain, like god help him, he must have done before. Right now, he would focus on Agent Vanilla, and getting the man home to his wife.

"Any news?"

She composed herself hurriedly. "Diana Berrigan will be here in a minute - " she checked as he lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "You like her; she's on Peter's team."

"I do, huh?" Neal attempted the shadow of a grin. "As in_ like_ or just as in friend?"

"Definitely, just as in friend."

For some reason, she found the question funny, and he was suddenly relieved to see her smile. He reflected and not for the first time, that Peter Burke was a lucky man. The moment of humour faded quickly as she regarded him a little more searchingly. Neal hastily composed his features and let the mask fall back into place.

"I'm okay," he forestalled her question. "I'd rather concentrate on the present. The rest of it – everything you've told me. It can wait until my memory returns."

"If you're sure," she sounded uncertain. "Please believe me, I'm so very sorry. It seems horribly cruel and really unfair for you to live through this again."

His voice was hard and unnaturally steady. "It seems I got through it the first time."

He ignored the flash of distress on her face and turned his head slightly on the pillow. He was rescued from having to say any more when someone rapped at the door. It was Hughes again, his expression still grim, and accompanied by Zahavi and a woman. At any other time it might have been funny, but he was not in the mood for hilarity. It was probably the very first time in his life he'd been glad to see the FBI.

In a way, El was like his conscience, or the vanilla-scented angel on his shoulder. Her presence alone made him feel guilty and more than a little bit sad. It was nothing she did and certainly nothing she said, but for some reason, he was uneasy around her. Maybe subconsciously, he had something to hide. He was actually relieved when she left.

"The doctors tell me your memory hasn't returned, and we've had no luck tracing Dante Haversham," Hughes paused and if possible, looked even grimmer; "not at any of the addresses you listed for us, or on the cell number he gave Agent Berrigan. In-fact, there's no record of him anywhere. It's as though the man doesn't exist."

Neal frowned, but he wasn't surprised. "Even if Moz has been working with you, I'm guessing it was probably reluctantly. You won't find him if he doesn't want to be found. He's not fond of the FBI."

It didn't matter what else was new, he was banking on Moz's innate suspicion. When it came to law enforcement officials, the man's sense of distrust was set in stone. There might still be a way to get hold of him if things hadn't changed too drastically. There were other numbers and other addresses, but Neal wasn't going to tell Hughes. For the moment, he would let Moz play possum, until he could speak to him in person. He needed to know if they had the cargo - a small frisson of excitement ran through him. Not only would it change everything, but it would alter the way he played his hand.

He turned to Zahavi. "What about Odessa?"

"We've been watching Odessa," the Israeli spoke softly. "They're fronted by a global import/export firm called Linzer International which has offices here in Manhattan. The CEO is a man called Anton Schiller. We believe him to be our main link. He went to all the right schools and joined all the right clubs, and in doing so, made all the right connections. Over the years, he's made some very powerful friends, a few of them based on Capitol Hill. Schiller spends a lot of time in Europe, but recently, he's been doing business in Pakistan and the Middle East. He flew back from Islamabad last Tuesday and he's been here in New York ever since."

"Business as in selling arms?"

"Mainly old Soviet weapons funnelled to groups like Al Qaeda through open-door countries like Iran, and some other, more up-to-date equipment from sympathetic Arab states. Of course, that's not what it says on the invoice receipts."

"You think Schiller has Peter here in New York?"

Diana Berrigan spoke for the first time. "Linzer International has been trading here since 1952. It owns over thirty real estate properties in New York City alone, to say nothing of other out-of-state holdings. There are several subsidiary companies trading under different names. We're looking into all likely locations, but it's going to take forever to narrow down a search simply by elimination."

Hughes glared irately at Neal again. "Time Peter doesn't have."

Neal refused to let the look faze him. "Why did they take Peter in the first place? If they think I have the cargo, then why shoot me and leave me behind?"

"We think they made a simple mistake," said Zahavi. "The most obvious reason for taking Agent Burke is to try and use him as leverage. They're working on the assumption the two of you went into business and decided to keep the cargo for yourselves."

He paused for a second, eyes narrowing, and Neal was sure Mossad had originally considered the same theory. He wondered what had changed Zahavi's mind and came to the somewhat sardonic conclusion it must have been meeting Agent _By the Book, _Vanilla, in person.

"The goons who took Burke were acting on orders. They had no reason to suppose you were with him. You're a hard man to identify, Mister Caffrey, there aren't too many recent pictures to be had."

"I take it you're tracking Schiller?"

"Both physically and electronically. We're building quite a picture of his contacts and routines. Mister Schiller is a very busy man."

"He's also a hard man to keep tabs on," Berrigan spoke again. "Linzer's cyber-trails are cleverly covered and there's a very sophisticated blocking device on all their communications networks, including Schiller's personal cell. Our techs are working on the encryptions, but yet again, it's eating precious time."

Neal thought it through quickly, and there was one very evident conclusion. None of this boded very well for Peter if Odessa thought he knew the whereabouts of the cargo. They would keep him alive; Neal had no doubt about that, for as long as they believed he might be useful, but there were no guarantees they wouldn't hurt him. They were dealing with a group of ruthless men.

He ignored Hughes and looked at Zahavi. This was no time for emotion or sentiment. He needed someone hard-nosed and efficient and had an instinct the Israeli was his man. "Get me out of here. I need to be someplace they can find me if we're going to get Peter Burke back alive."

Zahavi gave him a nod of acknowledgement. "I agree Schiller will try and make contact, but he'll want proof you have something to bargain with. Already, it might be too late to save Burke if Schiller thinks you've run with the cargo. "

"Right now, we have _nothing_ to bargain with if I'm the broken link in the chain."

"We have nothing to bargain with anyway," Diana Berrigan regarded him evenly. "Even if you _did_ steal the cargo, it's no good if you don't remember."

"_You_ think I have it," Neal answered sardonically, "and if you do, then Schiller will believe me. I need something to bait the hook with - something tasty to whet his appetite. One of the items from the manifest, _please tell me you do have the manifest?_ Let's say something I can copy in a hurry, a painting with a documented paper-trail. A Cezanne or perhaps a Velasquez . . . I can do either one standing on my head."

Berrigan flashed him an appreciative smile. "Always assuming such a manifest exists, and_ if_ said manifest actually lists a missing painting by either one of those artists, then I happen to agree. Unfortunately, the doctors don't. They're still worried about an inter-cranial bleed and want to keep you in for observation."

"I'm guessing _you'll_ be around to observe me," Neal was suddenly all business. "I can't imagine you'd trust me out there alone. You can be my guardian angel and watch over me, like killing two birds with one stone. If you don't get me out then I'll go AMA. For Peter's sake, you know it makes sense."

"There _will_ be someone with you at all times," it was clear that Hughes was still wary. "So you'll have no chance to run or meet up with Haversham. If he makes contact, you inform us immediately, failure to do so and you'll end up at Rikers. No tricks or games, this time, Caffrey. Any mistakes could cost Peter his life."

"I get the message," Neal was weary and sarcastic. "Your concern for my health is overwhelming. Makes me realise why I'm working with you. It must be because we're such friends."

"Neal," there was softening and a hint of genuine worry in Diana Berrigan's voice. "You may find this a little hard to believe, but we _are_ all in this together. We work hard and sometimes we play hard, and if we're friends, then it's down to Peter. He's a good boss and a good man and there's one thing he always insists on. As a team, we take care of one another - _we never leave any man behind._ I'd prefer it if you stayed in the hospital right now, but I don't think we have a real choice."

_You like her . ._ . he recalled El's words and rather thought he agreed with them. If Hughes was angry and upset and Zahavi enigmatic, he guessed that Berrigan at least, was on his side. Out of all of it, what struck him most forcibly was the respect they had for Agent Vanilla. The man appeared to have engendered the high opinion of them all, from his boss to his subordinates alike. It was as though fate was getting its own back, playing games in some twisted irony. Thanks to his head wound, he felt like a stranger. Peter Burke was a federal agent but he was about to risk his life for the man.

He was a part of a team – _an FBI team_ – and on good terms with at least one of the agents. He apparently spent down-time with Peter Burke's wife, so what the hell was in it for him?

The GPS anklet was one thing and probably answered some of his questions. He must have a key to it somewhere – the damned device was like an elephant in the room. Working for Burke must be a double-edged sword. _Was he a friend or was he a prisoner?_ There was something . . . a flash of almost-memory, which made him think he might be both.

**_TBC_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Six<strong>_

_He dreamed he was walking in Central Park, and she was there, warm and real beside him. Her blue eyes sparkling in the pale golden light as she laughed at something he'd said. Leaning forward, he was filled with a passionate desire to hold her close and protect her, to feel the weight of her against his body as he buried his face in her hair. She shook her head and spun away from him abruptly, ignoring his cries of protest. One second there, and then she was gone, slipping through his hands like rain._

There was pain then, sudden and shocking, more persistent now in intensity. It jolted him out of his safe place and back to cold hard reality. It took him longer to regain consciousness this time. The silent blackness pressed down upon him. He lay still in a puddle of water and blood and fought to remember his name. He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies as he pressed his swollen tongue against the flagstones. If it wasn't for the water they doused him with, there would be no way of relieving his thirst.

It wasn't exactly the _Waldorf Astoria,_ and there were no creature comforts whatsoever. No one had offered him any form of kindness. Nothing to lie on and no food nor drink. Being thirsty wasn't a good thing, of course. It went hand in hand with his injuries. His basic first aid skills were decent enough to recognise he was probably in shock. The last vestiges of the drugs had worn off and in a strange kind of way, he missed them. There was nothing to act as a buffer against all the misery and pain.

Peter took a quick inventory. They had smashed some bones, he could feel it. His nose, some ribs and very likely a cheekbone, a few fingers and most probably his left hand. He honestly couldn't tell about the rest of him. His muscles throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He felt shaky and weak and broken. Every inch of his body seemed to hurt.

They'd left him alone for a while now, but it was hard to gauge time in the darkness. He'd been drifting in and out of awareness and a muddle of lurid dreams. It was difficult – _a lot tougher to distinguish_ – the fine line between consciousness and fantasy, and thanks to the vice-like pain in his head, his thoughts were all out of synch. He wondered if Schiller had found out the truth. It might explain the man's absence. For all their planning – all their so-called efficiency, Schiller's goons had killed the wrong man.

As mistakes went, it veered on tragicomedy, except he didn't feel much like laughing. He was still having trouble believing it. Accepting that Neal was dead.

His pulse raced with a sullen, erratic beat. In a way, he supposed, it was his fault. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts about the cargo that he'd failed to notice anyone following him.

_It was his fault._

He'd called the meeting. Should have spoken to Neal in the office. Should have noticed they were being followed. It was his fault Neal was dead. A wash of grief and irony broke over him. He ought to have trusted his instincts. He'd known in his heart Neal was in danger. It was the curse of the treasure again.

Schiller thought Neal had moved off the grid. Too all intents and purposes vanished. No Neal meant no access to the cargo, which meant_ he_ was useless as leverage. Peter had no need of a crystal ball to know what Schiller's next move would be. He was a dead man, or good as, and Elizabeth might be in danger. A cold clarity sharpened his senses. There was no point wallowing in misery. He had to hope Hughes was working with Zahavi, and that between them, they would figure something out. However alone he felt in all this, he had faith his team were combing the city. They would not rest until they found him, and most importantly, they would take care of El.

He tensed when he heard the footsteps again and the door opened somewhere behind him. A draft of cold air rushed into the room and with it a familiar smell. It was rich and old and sharply pungent, and in a strange way, it reminded him of Christmas. With a rush of comprehension, he remembered what it was, and the aroma took him back to his childhood. It was incense, or specifically, frankincense and myrrh, the kind of fragrant gum they burned in censers. At last the stone alcoves and vaulted arches made sense - they were holding him prisoner in a church. The knowledge gave him a small gleam of hope and a slight sense of recovered power. He was no longer so totally helpless or lost. He felt calmer as some self-control returned.

Schiller stood and looked down at him thoughtfully. "Hello, Peter, how are you feeling?"

"Peachy," it was great to be a little defiant, even if he felt like hell.

Schiller smiled. "I knew you would prove determined. Good to see you haven't let me down."

"Hate to disappoint."

Peter wondered where this new tactic was leading, and his bravado was rocked by a sudden tremor of unease. For a man whose options were drying up, Schiller seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

"Do you know how torture was once defined?" Schiller crouched down next to Peter and stared into his pain-glazed eyes. The swift movement caused an eddy of incense through the stale cellar air. "It is defined as _'the art of killing a man without his dying.'_ Rather good, but lacking, don't you think?"

"I'm not a big fan, myself," Peter answered laconically, and tried not to show any reaction.

Schiller appeared to appreciate his response. "I prefer to define it as, the act of dismantling a man _before_ his dying. In the end, death is a gift of release, the ultimate goal, if you like. It can be a benefaction, a blessing, an almost sacred covenant between torturer and victim."

"I have to say that sounds a little one-sided."

"Possibly," Schiller was pensive. "Of course, it can also be a nightmare. A shrieking horror of agony and torment which leaves the victim like a side of raw meat."

"You're speaking from personal experience," Peter was blunt; "and that of a long line of skilled predecessors."

Schiller was curious. "You don't seem scared?"

"I'm scared," Peter answered him honestly. "I'd have to be crazy not to be. Scared of pain, scared of indignity. Of dying here lost and alone."

"That's not all, though, is it?" Schiller smiled again, triumphantly. "A man like you, Peter, I can tell you're not too afraid for yourself but you _are_ scared of letting others down. What frightens you most is the thought of this happening to someone you care about. Neal Caffrey's a possibility, but not as much as your lovely wife."

"My wife really doesn't know anything. As for Caffrey, you told me he'd gone missing. Besides, if he does have the cargo, then why should I worry about him?"

Peter knew at once he'd said the wrong thing as Schiller's laid back attitude vanished. The man straightened his knees and returned to his feet, with a contemptuous look on his face.

"You_ should_ worry because you helped steal it, in-spite of all your protestations of innocence. I spoke with Mister Caffrey early today, and he confirmed the two of you are in partnership. The temptation was simply too much to resist, even for a man with your reputation. Caffrey staged the explosion and then hid the art, while you took care of Vincent Adler. You then covered up the investigation and did your best to make the trail run cold. _Keep the treasure on ice and carry on as before until Caffrey worked off his sentence."_ Schiller shook his head. "_The best laid plans_ . . . well, you know what they say, but you didn't bank on my organisation. The cargo belongs to us, Agent Burke, and we intend to reclaim it."

The blood rushed to his head as Peter focused in on one part of Schiller's diatribe. "You spoke to Caffrey?"

"I'll be meeting up with him later. I've asked him to bring a small token of good faith. We have rather a lot to discuss."

"_He isn't_ . . . then he isn't off the grid?"

He'd almost given the game away and said something really careless. He wondered if Schiller had found out the truth and was screwing around with his head. Neal was dead, _or so Schiller had told him_. Gunned down as though inconsequential. If this was a new means of torture then he could vouch it was truly effective. _False hope_ – just the thought made him dizzy and ill. On the whole he preferred the beatings.

"Mister Caffrey had a change of heart and realised it was best to be prudent. Apparently, he's done a little soul-searching and has decided to do the right thing. I have to say the man surprised me. To be honest, I thought he'd deserted you. It seems your faith in him wasn't misplaced."

Peter swallowed, it sounded feasible, or else the man was a skilful bastard. He looked down to hide his sudden elation from Schiller's inquisitive eyes. On the surface, Odessa held all the cards, and there was nothing to be gained by lying. He hoped to god Neal had come clean about things and was working alongside his team. If not, _if this was all part of some scam,_ then the future looked distinctly unrosy. They were both in very grave danger, and even worse, so was El.

He shivered and tried to look on the bright side. "So tell me, what happens next?"

"You better hope Mister Caffrey is a man of his word. If he is, then the outcome will be favourable. You, I'm afraid, will be collateral damage, but no harm will come to your wife. She will be free to mourn you and play the part of a grieving widow. I give you my word on that, Agent Burke. A small price to pay, don't you agree?"

"And Caffrey?"

"Ah yes, Mister Caffrey. This brings me back to the definition of torture. If he keeps his side of the bargain, you won't end up like a side of raw meat. If he tries to double cross me, however, then the outcome will be very different. You'd better pray the old adage is right, and there really _is_ honour amongst thieves."

* * *

><p>His hand was shaking too much to hold the paintbrush. Neal breathed deeply and stood back from the canvas. His head reeled and the lines blurred before him. The smell of linseed oil made him feel nauseous. They'd given him a choice of two paintings which were listed on the U-boat's manifest, either a Velasquez or a long-lost Caravaggio, both missing at the end of the war. If they had more time, it was a no-brainer, and he would have preferred the Caravaggio, but the clock was still ticking on Peter Burke's life, and the Velasquez was easier to forge.<p>

He already knew the painting. For some reason, it was etched in his memory. The implications of that made him wonder a little, but for now, such thoughts were a waste of time. They were lucky the Velasquez was well referenced. There were photographs in pre-war art books and catalogues. He'd asked for a canvas-sized image which now hung on a separate easel beside him. It was a portrait from the painter's middle period in Madrid, and made fairly simple use of colour; stark black outlines on a muted golden background and a bold, realistic style.

He was using an aged and very dull Victorian seascape to build-up the appearance of layering. The old oil paint was already cracked and dirty and would add to the general effect. Neal had always been good at this and the picture took shape pretty quickly, but in essence, this was the easy stage and not the time-consuming part. Any reasonably talented artist could make a half-decent copy of a painting, but it took the hands of a master forger to age and authenticate the work. An amateur might use steel-wool and boot-polish, but he knew of better and more skilful methods. Some of the glazes and antique varnishes he prepared were taken from historical recipes. It was more about technique, a little knowledge of chemistry and the ability to apply some precision.

Neal closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. Unfortunately, precision needed clarity. Right now, the loft was spinning around him and he swallowed back the urge to be sick.

"Are you okay?" Berrigan sounded concerned.

"Not really," he kept his eyes closed. "Just give me a minute, Diana."

"Minute, my ass." She got up from her chair and moved across the room to his side. "No argument, you need to sit down and close your eyes for a while."

"There's no time." He was brutally honest. "Not if you want me to finish this. I need to apply the glazes now or they won't have long enough to dry."

"Neal, you know what the doctors said - "

"We're cutting it fine enough, as it is. I'd need days even weeks, to do this properly, to have any chance of convincing an expert, but short-term, the painting still has to fool Schiller, or Peter's as good as dead."

She knew he was right, it was there in her eyes, but nonetheless, he was pathetically grateful. Her concern for his health seemed genuine enough and he was glad of any crumbs he could snatch. He picked up his paintbrush and looked around the loft. Not five star, but pretty nice anyway. It was eclectic and kind of homey with an oak-panelled William Morris vibe. On the other hand, it made him feel even more lost. _Like a glimpse into another man's life._

There were things of his, and things he would have wanted. He supposed he must have gone out and chosen them. Maybe even bought them with the meagre expenses he earned from the FBI. Strangest of all was the artwork which adorned a good deal of the spare wall-space. Predominantly by him, there were a few copies of old masters, but mostly framed originals. He must spend a lot of down-time simply painting for fun, and that in itself was absurd. Forging art was usually a means to an end and the act was never for pleasure. The end result might give him a certain sense of pride, but it was all about fooling the mark. To this day there were some of his forgeries still hanging in various museums. To his knowledge they had never been detected, or if they had, the proprietors were either too embarrassed or too smart to admit the theft to their insurers.

The living room was lined with bookcases and usually, he would have found them irresistible. The contents were pretty much as he expected, lots of reference books on history and art. There was an Arts and Crafts fireplace and a refectory table and a pair of doors out onto a roof-space, from which a pair of impressive stone griffins cast their watchful eyes over the city.

_Would Kate have liked it?_

His knuckles clenched on the paintbrush and the thought of her was almost unbearable. The question itself might be useless, but even so, it still cut like a knife. A sudden shiver ran down his spine. If he blinked, he could see her at the table. She was tossing her dark head at something he said, her fingers curled around a glass of red wine.

"That's enough."

He realised he was swaying when Diana put a hand under his elbow. She prised the paintbrush out of his hand and led him across to the couch.

"Stay there and don't move," she glared at him, firmly, "while I make us a fresh pot of coffee."

This time, he was too tired to argue. He was hovering on the edge of a migraine. His temples were tightening and constricting with pain and Neal knew he needed a break. He wasn't great at dealing with injury and the thought of a fractured skull was pretty frightening, but there would be time enough to take it easy and rest when Peter Burke was home with his wife. For now it was up to him to cowboy-up and . . . wait a minute, where the hell had that come from?

_Cowboy-up?_

The cheesy adage came right out of the blue and was something he would never say. When he closed his eyes, he heard the words again, and saw a flash of Peter Burke's face. Neal sighed and ran his hand through his hair, being careful of the row of sutures. They ran from his temple to the back of his skull, a jagged furrow amongst a strip of shaven hair. Not exactly a fashion statement, but there was no-one he needed to impress now. Diana Berrigan was obviously immune to his charms, and as for Kate . . . he pushed the thought away.

The whole losing your memory thing sucked. His nerve endings thrummed with frustration. Almost seven years of his life snatched away and shrouded just out of reach. He should use the time to make a break for it – contact Moz and skip out of the country, but intuition, every natural feeling, was screaming at him to stay put. He was a member of Peter Burke's team. He had a home and quite clearly a life here. The question was, how he was playing it. Was the whole thing an elaborate con?

_Was it?_

He simply didn't know the answer.

He wished to god, he did.

"Here," Diana dropped two Tylenol into the palm of his hand and placed a mug down on the table. "You could probably use something stronger, but for now, they're all I can give you."

"Thanks," he swallowed them gratefully and washed them down with the scalding coffee. His stomach was rancid with acid, but he supposed they would eventually work.

"This must be very strange," she read his thoughts accurately. "I can't imagine losing my memory. To be totally at the mercy of whatever we choose to tell you - "

"It's like being on the end of a con?"

"I wasn't going to say that," she made a wry face. "But I can see there's a weird similarity. Do you ever . . . no, stupid question."

"Do I ever have any regrets?"

"Well, do you?"

"What do you think?

"If things were normal, you'd never tell me."

He smiled and shook his head at her. "Then I guess you'll never know. Tell me, Diana, is this your way of asking if I took the Nazi cargo? I can say, hand on heart, I have no regrets, because honestly, I have no idea."

"_Touché,"_ she took a mouthful of coffee. "You know, maybe it would be simpler if it stayed this way. It would certainly be better for all of us if the wretched art had really been destroyed."

"Not for Peter."

"We _will_ get him back."

Neal wished he could share her optimism. To be frank, he felt as though he was winging it. There was far too much resting on his shoulders. He'd left hospital first thing this morning and his hunch had paid off about Odessa. There had been a message ready and waiting when he walked into the loft that evidently, he rented in this house. He'd made contact with them immediately and spoken to a man he guessed was Schiller. He'd muttered something about a crisis of conscience and confirmed he had stolen the cargo. Schiller clearly believed he had tried to run, and then had second thoughts and changed his mind.

On the surface, the deal seemed straightforward, pretty much as Neal had suspected. They wanted a sample of the Nazi loot in return for a proof of life. Too make things worse, there was no sign of Moz, even though Neal had directly disobeyed Hughes' order and tried to contact him. The little man had either gone underground or vanished off the face of the earth.

If he was free or had so much as a minute to himself, then finding Moz would not be a problem, but Berrigan was literally his shadow and had been sticking to him like glue. Zahavi too, and a couple of his men, stern-faced and impartial Mossad agents. They searched the house and set up various pieces of equipment before settling down for the night. They were lucky and Neal envied them. It seemed sleep was an impossible luxury. He would be working through until sunrise to produce a creditable forgery.

Talking of lucky – his forehead creased at the word – the big house was conveniently empty. The lady who owned it had travelled out of town, gone to Europe for a couple of weeks. That was another thing – he gave a sigh of impatience. From the sound of it, she'd been pretty good to him. He had tried really hard to picture her face, but even her name had eluded him.

_June._

Diana had told him.

From the sound of things, more than a land-lady. They had formed an unlikely connection and ended up as close friends. For a second Neal was filled with despondency quickly followed by a sense of despair. _What if the amnesia was permanent and his memories never returned?_ He would be stuck in the twilight zone forever and trapped in a weird kind of limbo, with no real knowledge of the last seven years, let alone any kind of resolution.

There was one man who could help shed some light on things. The thought came as a kind of revelation. Peter Burke had been there through the whole of it, and right now, Neal needed a friend. Gut feeling – some primal instinct, told him the man could be trusted – and if Elizabeth Burke had been telling the truth, then Special Agent Peter Burke might fill that role.

He looked across at the completed canvas. It was time to add the last minute details. Some glazing and layers of varnish to make the painting seem adequately aged. After that, it would be baked in the oven to speed up the drying process. Some judicious use of a blow-torch and then hopefully, his job would be done. Not his best work, he was forced to acknowledge the fact, but there was no time to get picky over niceties. The forgery would never fool an expert, but he hoped it might buy them some time.

_Maybe enough time to save Peter Burke's life._

To bring him back home to Elizabeth.

Neal looked at Berrigan. "You have the tracker?"

"Careful," she handed him a small box. "This is several thousand dollars worth of cutting-edge Mossad technology. They might get a little pissed off if we lose it."

"Shekels," Neal murmured absentmindedly, as he examined the tiny microdot and considered where to place it on the canvas. "Standard Israeli currency. Currently running at an exchange rate of between three and four shekels to the dollar . . ." he stopped dead and looked up at her with a startled expression. "How can I remember trivia like that when my life is one big blank page?"

"Neal - "

She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm but he shook her off impatiently. There was nothing she could say to make this easier. Nothing she could say to make things right. His head was fucked, and so were his memories. The doctors were reluctant to commit themselves. He might wake-up one morning with his past intact, or close the book on seven years of his life. He looked back at the painting and his eyes burned with tears. There was no point getting emotional. No time to feel vulnerable or sorry for himself. He'd made a pledge to Peter Burke's wife.

"So this thing is undetectable?"

"According to Zahavi, it can't be scanned by any conventional means. It also has a long-range tracking facility which will enable us to get an accurate picture of Schiller's movements once he has the forgery in his possession."

"But no guarantee he'll lead us to Peter."

"No," she was sober for a second. "It will however, increase the odds."

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Seven<strong>_

They'd left him alone since the last time and Peter was profoundly grateful. Schiller's sermon on the noble art of torture had been nothing more than grandiose crap. He'd tried, really tried to stay conscious, but in the end, the effort was beyond him. To quote the old adage, the spirit was willing but his body was simply too weak.

He had a sense several hours had passed, but it was only a visceral instinct. It was dark and he had no way of telling the time, other than a feeling in his gut. He was untied and huddled in a heap on the floor, the old flagstones cold and smooth beneath him. Stretching out blindly, he extended his hand and groped around for the wall. It helped having something to lean on, and sitting up relieved his breathing a little. After awhile, he worked out a rhythm. It was easier to pant softly through his mouth.

_Had to think._

Had to clear the fog in his head.

Schiller had promised to kill him. His dying was the price of Elizabeth's safety and any chance of getting on with her life. Of course, there were no guarantees a man like Schiller could be trusted to keep his word, and El was still horribly vulnerable for as long as Odessa believed he had anything to do with stealing the U-boat cargo. It was about time he stepped up and helped her. He was as good as a dead man, anyway. His only chance, however slender, was to make an attempt to escape.

_Easier said than done._

He was hurt and barely able to move and the two men who usually beat him had guns. The alternative was doing nothing. Of sitting here meekly, and waiting to be tortured and killed at Schiller's convenience. He closed his eyes and fought to summon some reserves of strength.

_What would he do if he was Caffrey?_

A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth and Peter snorted in-spite of his pain. If he was Caffrey, he would have either done a deal with Schiller at the outset, or picked the lock and strolled to freedom on the very first day. The man was _that_ smart. On the other hand, _he_ was a smart guy, too, although he'd doubted that a little bit lately. After all, when everything was said and done, he'd damned well caught the great Neal Caffrey in the end.

When the two men had finished the last time, they hadn't bothered re-tying him. Guess they'd figured he was too hurt and broken to cause them any more trouble. Peter felt a stab of hope, so sharp it was almost painful. Maybe there was a chance they'd been equally careless about locking the door?

It took him an inordinate amount of time to get across the floor. Broken bones hurt and hitched with each movement. The pall of darkness was almost stygian in nature and didn't help his progress at all. _Couldn't make it._ Peter gave a groan of despair. His battered body was working against him. Instinct, reason, and common-sense - they all told him to rest and stay still.

_Cowboy up. _

It might be his only chance. He had to take it however meagre. As facts went, he was forced to confront the truth. His body might not survive another beating.

The last few feet were something of a dark nightmare, but eventually, his fingers brushed the doorframe. The wood felt warm and dry to the touch, in comparison to the stone wall. He tried the iron handle. _No such luck._ The door remained firmly closed. Peter leant drunkenly against it and fought to catch his breath. It was hard not to feel despondent. It would have been too ridiculously simple to suppose they had left it unlocked. He tried to recall the layout of the cellar. There were no windows and no other form of exit. The oak door remained, emphatically, his only means of escape.

Other than the chair, there was no furniture. No nothing . . . _other than the chair._

As chairs went, it was nothing spectacular. Four-legged, curve-backed and simple. At present, it was probably a trifle damp from his blood and the buckets of water. It was all he had to use as a weapon. The acid test was whether he could lift it. The way he was feeling at present left him with serious doubts.

_No choice._

It was all he had. The options were really very simple. He could give into the pain and wait here to die or try and recapture some dignity. In the end, it was a no-brainer. He would get out or go down in the attempt.

The words sounded pretty good in his head. Ten minutes later, they were so much bravado. Getting the damned chair across to the door nearly proved to be his undoing. It wasn't easy working in darkness, but he didn't want to put the light on. He couldn't risk alerting his captors and the light-switch was essential to his plan. There was plenty of water on the cellar floor trapped in the grooves of the well-worn flagstones, and his torn remnants of clothing were unpleasantly damp as a result of the frequent soakings. With any luck the ancient wiring was as old as the church, and the cracked switch plate hadn't been earthed.

Taking his shirt off was miserable - his broken hand was almost useless – and shrugging the tattered garment off his shoulders caused an agony of fire in his ribs. They had brutally stripped most of his clothes away when he was drugged in the back of the van, and he remembered feeling ridiculously glad he hadn't worn his lucky tie. Right now, he could really use his belt and shoes, and wondered wistfully about his suit jacket. He was so wretchedly cold in his wet T-shirt and pants, that being warm was a distant fantasy.

He used the shirt to mop up the water until it was well and truly saturated, and then wrung it out in front of the doorway and dropped it onto the floor. Catching his breath after that was a nightmare, but he couldn't waste time on self-pity. Muscles trembling with effort, he heaved the chair in the air, and smashed the damaged plate off the light switch. He heard the broken plastic splinter and fall and hoped he had done enough.

Panting hard, Peter leaned back against the wall. He strained his ears in the darkness and listened. His heart began racing uncomfortably as he heard someone coming down the stairs. The rattle of metal and a key in the lock, but no accompanying sound of voices. He moved to the dry side and held onto the chair, barely daring to hope.

The door opened and the man came halfway into the room before reaching to flick on the light-switch. Peter heard his muffled grunt of surprise as his foot touched the sodden shirt at the same time as his fingers came into contact with the exposed electrical wiring. There was a bang and a sudden flash of sparks and then the crash of a body falling. The man made no sound as he slumped to the ground in a huddle at Peter's feet.

_Utter silence._

Nothing else happened. No one followed the first man into the cellar. Peter realised his arms were shaking as he lowered the waiting chair. He'd been ready to take out a second man using the darkness as a means of advantage. Incredibly, his plan had worked like a charm, and even better, the guard was alone. Peter hung his head in the gloom, the adrenalin spike made him feel dizzy. Using the chair to support himself, he took a few heady gulps of air.

_Had to act._

He was careful not to kneel in the water even though the current had earthed itself. Yet again the wooden chair came in handy as he used it to nudge the man away. He took the gun first, most likely a Beretta, and then felt the man's neck for a pulse-rate. After a couple of seconds, he located one, beating slowly and slightly erratically. The shock hadn't been enough to kill him, pretty much as Peter expected. He groaned as Peter opened his airway and made a snoring sound through his nose.

_Had to be quick._

Schiller's goon might wake at any moment and there was one other vital thing he needed. Peter's fingers closed around the man's cell-phone and he transferred it into his pocket. It was hard doing everything one-handed and he couldn't spare anymore time. He wasted several more valuable minutes divesting the man of his jacket, before locking him into the cellar and contemplating the flight of spiral stairs.

As options went, it was not very dignified, but it meant he could move much faster. Gritting his teeth, Peter leaned his weight on his arms and began to drag himself upwards. He had to stop several times in exhaustion and pain, his tortured lungs gasping and heaving, leaning his forehead against the cold stone as his fading body made the extra yards.

There was another oak door at the top of the stairs which had been left an inch or two ajar. He used the handle to pull himself up and listened hard for a few careful seconds. It would be too cruel to fail at this juncture when salvation was almost in sight. There was nothing - no sound from the other side – and Peter pushed at it cautiously. The old hinges groaned a little as he stepped through to the other side.

The scent of old incense was stronger now, permeating the very air around him. Peter stumbled and nearly fell onto one knee as his vision seemed to fade and grey out. _Toast – right now, he was worse than toast, if there was anyone else in the building._ He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his forehead damp with exhaustion and sweat.

There wasn't.

No one shouted or shot at him. He was surrounded by a strange kind of stillness. He jumped a little when the silence was broken by a pigeon cooing somewhere in the rafters. It was a church, pretty much as he'd figured, although the building had been sadly neglected. Dark wood, ripped out pews, and a shaft of red light that bisected the cracked parquet floor. He looked up as his eyes adjusted and saw it came from a stained glass window, the light tinged with a gauzy hint of gold which suggested it might be late evening. _Either that or his vision was hazy._ Peter blinked at the sudden transition. He'd spent so many hours in the darkness, it was almost painfully bright.

The cellar door was to the side of the chancel at the altar end of the building. He closed and bolted it behind him and took better stock of his surroundings. The church was clearly abandoned and relatively small. Time and vandals had not been kind to it. Some of the glass in the half-boarded windows was smashed and graffiti littered the walls. The smell of damp was all pervasive and vied with the stale scent of incense. Peter fought back a sudden wave of giddiness as his empty stomach rebelled.

For a moment he almost lost it.

His knees caved out from under him. He sank back against the cellar door as a cold sweat coated his face. Clenching his teeth, he held onto the gun for dear life. He would not – _could not_ – lose consciousness. Schiller or his goons might return at any time. He was too close to give up now.

It took a while, he didn't know how long, but the light was substantially faded. His pulse beat like a hammer in his temples and he was suddenly desperately afraid. If he didn't move soon, he might never move again. He was filled with the certain knowledge. Climbing the staircase and the over-exertion . . . _something had shifted inside him, had changed._

He laid the gun on the floor and reached for the cell-phone. To his relief, the guard hadn't locked it. It took several attempts to key-in the number as the pads blurred in front of his eyes.

"Jones," his voice sounded awful. "I need you to come get me. You'll have to track me using this cell. Sorry I can't be more precise."

"We're right on it, hang on in there. Good to hear from you - are you okay?"

Peter grimaced. "I will be. You need to hurry, they could return any minute. I think I'm still in the city or maybe someplace nearby – in a disused church, of all things. There's a guy called Anton Schiller . . ."

"Don't worry, we're onto Schiller, but right now, you're our priority. Can you hold out until we can get there? It might take a little time."

He deliberately ignored the question. There would be time enough to deal with his injuries. As of now, he had other anxieties. More important concerns on his mind. "Schiller made threats against Elizabeth. I need to know she'll be safe."

"It's taken care of. She'll be happy to hear you've been in touch."

The sense of relief was overwhelming and a staccato breath shuddered out of him. Considering the man was a psychopath, Schiller had summed him up well. He could have taken their beatings and torture and even died in that hell-hole of a cellar. So long as he'd known that his wife was all right. Just so long as they didn't hurt El.

He swallowed hard. "And Caffrey?" Was it his imagination or did Jones hesitate? "Jones?"

"He's been doing everything he can to help us."

As answers went, it was less than satisfactory, but at least it confirmed Neal was alive. Peter sagged as the adrenalin surged out of him. It was yet another worry off his check list. A part of him had questioned Schiller's assertion that the two of them had planned to meet up. He would hear all about it later, and no doubt, it involved some kind of story. _Could it be Neal had finally come clean and revealed the whereabouts of the cargo?_

Cutting the call, he switched the cell to silent mode but left it switched on, mindful there was less than fifty per cent left on the battery. They would track him through the GPS signal. He only hoped they would make it in time.

He was on his own until they got here.

There was only one way out as far as he could see. A pair of doors at the end of the nave. Tucking his useless arm around his ribcage, Peter staggered back to his feet. _One hand for the gun and one arm for his ribs._ It made the going slow and uneven. His eyesight was fading badly and for some reason his balance was off. It couldn't have been more than thirty yards but he felt like he was running a marathon. By the time he reached his destination, his breath rasped like a saw in his lungs.

Hand shaking, he tried turning the iron ring and came up against resistance. There was a keyhole under the handle and the heavy doors were obviously locked. For the first time since beginning his desperate bid for freedom, Peter knew real despair. _He had a pretty good idea where the key was._ He should have searched the guard more thoroughly. There was no way in hell – _in a million years_ – he could ever make it back down those stairs. If he did, the man might be conscious by now - conscious and hurting and angry. Even armed, it was a fight he wouldn't contemplate. Peter knew he couldn't risk a confrontation.

The gun.

It still gave him a bargaining chip.

He had to find a decent vantage position. Some place where he could hole up in relative safety, at least until the cavalry arrived. Trouble was, it would mean moving again, and moving was an anathema. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and it came away streaked with scarlet. He stared down at the blood for a second or two and considered the implications. There was a halo around his vision and a coppery taste on his tongue. _Fading fast_ – he was fading fast – having difficulty staying upright. The pain in his chest was unbearable like a knife driven into his side.

Staggering, he wove back down the aisle to the recess behind the transept. There was a bowl-shaped alcove which had once housed an organ, and a jumble of ripped out pews. He had a perfect view of the doors from here and a decent amount of cover. This was perfectly fine in theory . . . _just as long as he stayed awake._

Peter slid down, legs stretched out in front of him. He knew he couldn't get up again. He watched the light through the stained glass windows and held the gun in his lap. For a moment he considered calling El, there was so much he wanted to say to her, but then he realised he was being self-indulgent. It would be cruel in the extreme. Better wait until he was rescued. To when the outcome was no longer in question. When he could see her and feel the warmth of her skin and breathe in the fragrance of her hair . . .

His shoulders slumped and his head lolled forwards.

_The Beretta slipped out of his hand._

* * *

><p>He wouldn't win any beauty contests right now. Neal stared at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was grey and unhealthy from lack of sleep and there were dark shadows circling each eye. To say he felt a little off-colour would be somewhat of a minor understatement. He let the cold water run into his hands and sluiced it across it face.<p>

The painting was finished – they were out of time. It was his job to convince Odessa. Failure to do so would cost them Peter Burke's life and mean an uncertain future for him.

He smiled derisively, couldn't help it. The whole thing was outside of crazy. Like being locked inside a nightmare or a bizarre and surreal dream. No Kate, no Moz, nothing tangible, no one trusted or familiar to help him. He truly _was_ dangling over the precipice and about to leap into space. Elizabeth Burke and the FBI - the odd thing was he believed them. Their worry about Burke was genuine and he knew they wouldn't lie to him. Even though his memory had gone AWOL, he was part of this strange new present.

_Neal Caffrey – FBI consultant._

The title had a funny sort of ring to it.

The kind of man he would be in the future – _the kind of man they said he was, in real-life._ Always assuming he didn't have the cargo, of course. That he and Moz hadn't stolen the treasure. If they had, it cast a different slant on things, and his prospects seemed vastly more nebulous. A billion dollar fortune or a white picket fence – the old Neal would find it hugely entertaining. On the surface it was a real no-brainer. He would have taken the money and run.

Yet there was something – something inside him. A deep sense of worry and urgency. It was why he'd pushed so hard for the last eighteen hours to produce the forgery of his life. He closed his eyes and his mind grasped at tendrils . . . a set of words imprinted on his subconscious.

Agent Vanilla looking up at him intently; _'We don't leave anyone behind.'_

_He was running hard towards an elevator, his lungs were bursting, and someone was shouting. Peter was in serious trouble unless he made it on time. Fingers trembling and checking for a pulse-rate, the awkward slump of a heavy body, and then a very real feeling of terror when that same heart-rate slowed down and died._

Pain and loss, he opened his eyes again, and gripped hold of the edge of the basin. They threatened to overwhelm him – to engulf and swallow him whole. Loss of Kate – loss of everything familiar – the potential loss of Agent Vanilla . . . as terrible, as scary as all of it was, it was not as bad as losing himself. The face in the mirror was no different, albeit maybe a little older. There were no clues or obvious pointers to indicate who the hell he was.

_Neal Caffrey, Nick Halden_ - and a dozen, maybe two dozen, others. He'd taken real care choosing the names and they'd all served a purpose at the time, but now he wanted something real – something more honest and tangible. A future with a true sense of permanence. Some truth and certainty back in his life.

Neal had a sudden rush of deja-vu. The sentiment didn't seem odd to him. He scrutinised his reflection. It felt like he'd been here before. It was past Neal versus future Neal, but at present, he was dancing in limbo. The amnesia was _probably_ temporary, or so the doctors had tried to reassure him. If they were wrong and his memories failed to return, then some questions might never get answered. His real thoughts, real feelings, true opinions – swallowed up by the sands of time.

He would be at the mercy of others. What _they_ thought he _should_ have been thinking. Everything changed and subjected to fit in with their view of the world. For a brief second he was flooded with anger. Spinning abruptly, he turned away from the mirror. The man in the glass was a stranger. He couldn't bear to look at his face.

Moving quickly across to the water tank, he lifted the porcelain lid and ran his fingers fastidiously around the rim. It took less than a second to locate the cell phone he'd carefully taped inside. He'd _acquired_ it from one of the doctors during his last day at the hospital. A few quick adjustments to the SIM card and in essence, the cell was his.

_In essence_ – for all the good it had been.

He might as well not have bothered. The one man he wanted to contact had clearly gone underground. One last try – he called Moz's main number – and then ran through a few other options. Each call went straight through to voice-mail, but he couldn't risk leaving a message. It was a good bet the numbers were out of date. Moz had always been paranoid. Neal held the cell in the palm of his hand and looked down at it in despair.

He had never felt more alone in his life.

Washing his hands, he put the phone in his pocket, straightened his tie and walked out of the bathroom. He was taken aback by the unexpected, and if he was being honest, rather unsettling sight of Elizabeth Burke waiting in the bedroom. To his credit, he recovered immediately and he was curiously relieved to see her. From the start of this horrible nightmare, he'd somehow known she was his friend.

"Colonel Zahavi brought me," she spoke quickly, in explanation. "I told him I wanted to see you. To make sure you were feeling okay and I needed to give you this."

_This_ was a felt fedora, quality-made and banded with leather. The hat was stylish and seemed very familiar as he turned it around in his hands. It would be perfect for hiding his sutures when he went for his rendezvous with Schiller, but there was something special about it . . . something rather more significant than that.

_Another image - like a blinding camera flash._

He was running, even though it was futile, and in his heart he knew it wasn't fast enough. The white van lifted Peter like a rag doll and tossed him up into the air. _Shots fired and a blinding flash of pain._ He was falling . . . spinning hard onto the concrete. The fedora circled down like a snowflake as the blood began to pool around his head.

"They ran him down," he blurted out the words, the memory was graphic and shocking. "The fedora – it triggered something. I remember what happened in the park."

"Peter – they ran down Peter?" her face turned to chalk. "Dear god, was he still alive?"

"Yes," he thought hard and pressed a hand to his head. "Yes, he was still struggling, fighting them. Three men and a fourth man driving the van. They took him and then drove away."

_"Alive . . ."_

She barely whispered the word, and then swayed on her feet, and for a second, he thought she might faint. Her eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings as the colour leeched out of her face.

"Hey," taking hold of her arms very gently, he steadied her and then sat them both down on the edge of the bed. "Elizabeth –_ El_ – I'm so sorry. I didn't think, didn't mean to scare you."

She passed a shaky hand across her face. "It's okay, _I'm okay._ You said he was still alive?"

"Most definitely," he hurried to reassure her. For some reason, it really mattered. "Alive and fighting and pissed off as hell. There was no way they wanted him dead."

She smiled bravely, although her bottom lip was trembling. "Thank you, it does help a little. Just to have a reason to hope . . . to keep praying he's still alive."

_"You love him."_

He had no right to say it. No right to assume she would answer. He didn't know why he even asked her, or why it was important to him. Everything was so hopelessly, horribly screwed, and he needed to have faith in something. Even something as private and apparently remote as Elizabeth Burke's love for her husband.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she caught hold of his hand. "Yes, I love him more than anything. He's the man I thought I would never find - everything in the world to me."

He swallowed hard. "I promise to give it my best shot. I'll do my best to get Peter back home to you."

"I know you will."

"If I'm honest," he smiled a tad bitterly. "Logic – or lack of memory, tells me I have no reason to get involved in any of this. It even tells me I owe Peter nothing. But it's funny," he tapped the place above his heart. "_This_ tells me Peter is my friend."

"He is," El spoke passionately. "If nothing else, Neal, you have to believe me. Either that, or listen to what your heart says. Trust me, it's telling you the truth"

Her words seemed to pierce his defences. He felt shaky and incredibly vulnerable. Clearing his throat, he was forced to take a deep breath and blink back an embarrassing rush of tears. "Thank you. That was nice of you. For you to come here and think of me at this time when . . . when . . ."

"Please, Neal," she gripped hold of him tighter. "When I told you before we cared about you, it wasn't an exaggeration. We've both been really worried since this whole U-boat business began. Neither of us want to lose you, you're Peter's friend and you work well together. The two of you are complimentary. You have one another's backs."

_I trust you more than anyone._

His memory was working in sound-bites.

_Had he really said that to Peter?_

He looked up and saw a similar pain reflected in the depths of Elizabeth's eyes. It was an anguish he'd seen before - another flashback of grief and anxiety. It had something to do with Keller, involving the Russian Mob. The flashbacks were coming more frequently and he supposed that must be a good sign. If only they weren't so disjointed then they might make a little more sense. Neal put a hand up to his temple. Trying to remember made his head ache. The subtext was inescapable and made the hurt seem a lot worse. He liked - _really liked_ – Elizabeth Burke. Her compassion had thrown him a lifeline. There was no reason for her to lie to him. He believed every word she said.

Then what in god's name was he playing at, if he really_ had_ stolen the cargo?

He would be risking his freedom, his friendships, for the sake of a blood-stained fortune. Any chance of a real future in exchange for the con of his life. They hadn't let him see the sub's manifest, but he could imagine the list of treasures. The paintings alone worth billions, listed as missing since the end of the war. He licked his lips, couldn't help it, at the thought of all that lost beauty. It was a little like being an addict and his drug of dependence was art.

_Was it worth it?_

He inhaled deeply. He was no latter day Pygmalion. There was more to him, dear god, there _had_ to be, if it ever came down to a choice. Life and love and happiness . . . the invaluable meaning of true friendship. In the end, they were more important than art, even an unimaginable fortune's worth, and he would give it all up in a heartbeat to bring Kate back from the dead.

Elizabeth squeezed his fingers and Neal realised he'd been drifting. He looked down at her unguardedly, and the words tumbled out of his mouth.

"Do I have it?"

She didn't glance away or play games with him. Or pretend not to understand the question. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly as she considered how to respond.

"We don't know for sure if you stole it, but Peter thinks you know where it is."

His lips twisted. "I'm amazed he hasn't slapped the cuffs on me yet and revoked my _get-out-of-jail_ pass."

El shook her head. "Like I said, there's no real proof you either took it or have it, and Peter wants to believe you. He's your friend, Neal; he wants the best for you. We both hoped you'd come good in the end."

"Come good, huh?" he pulled away from her. "You have no idea what you're asking. What the hell does that even mean?"

"_Everything,"_ she spoke to him passionately. "Don't you see, Neal, it means everything. A bright and shiny new future and a real chance to start over again."

"Do you know me, really know me?" his voice sounded horribly uncertain.

"Right now?" her eyes were glistening with tears. "Maybe better than you know yourself."

There was no easy answer – no rejoinder to that, and the bright flame of anger flickered out again. He felt drained and frighteningly hollow. As though his life was one big blank page. If Peter thought he had the cargo, then it made it an odds-on certainty. Agent Vanilla was pretty astute and his hunches were seldom wrong.

_How did he know that?_

He could have cried at the irony.

The same way he believed in Elizabeth. The same way he knew deep down in his heart, he was partly responsible for this. The simple fact Odessa wanted him, and the flashbacks of painting the Degas. If the cargo had been there for the taking, then how could he ever resist? The old Neal would have thanked his lucky stars and whichever deity was looking out for him. The mere thought of such treasure, of such immeasurable wealth, right there at his fingertips.

_Him and Moz – they had the cargo._

It was the only logical deduction.

They had stolen it from right under Peter Burke's nose, and the thought filled him with total despair. All the talk about turning a new leaf – a fresh start and a gleaming future. Had he been conning them all from the beginning, was it all one gigantic lie?

El was right – he had no fucking clue - no idea about his dreams or aspirations, but he was filled with a sense of conviction.

_He and Moz had been preparing to run._

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Eight<strong>_

Neal glanced sideways at his taciturn companion and decided against making chit-chat. He'd been surprised and a little apprehensive when Rom Zahavi met them down at the car.

"Let's not beat around the bush," the Israeli colonel got in the back beside him as Diana sat in the driver's seat. "I don't know all that much about amnesia, but I've spoken to a couple of top neurologists and they assure me there's a very good chance your memory will return."

"Comforting," Neal was sardonic and more than a little defiant. "Or maybe not so. I can guess where we're going from here."

"Can you?" the Israeli spoke mildly. "Then I'm sure you know what I'm about to say."

"You think I stole the cargo. There's a part of you that wonders if I'm faking this. You're about to place me on a warning, just in case I decide to run."

"Not so much a warning," Zahavi smiled, "but more of a polite request. Other than many of the paintings which were catalogued as stolen from Russian galleries, did you know the restitution commission has been able to locate at least fifty living people with a viable claim to some of the items listed on the U-boat's manifest? Two of them, at least, are actual holocaust survivors. Pretty amazing after all these years. These are people with legitimate ownership rights who are entitled to receive some justice."

"As far as I know, I don't have it. If it survived, I don't know where it is."

"But there is a good chance you'll remember, and when you do, I want you to consider those people. Because rest assured, Mister Caffrey, we _will_ be considering you."

"Again, comforting," Neal answered him flippantly. "Always nice to be _considered_ by Mossad. If and when I regain all my faculties, I'll try and keep it in mind. There's just one thing you seem to have forgotten, are you quite sure _you_ don't have amnesia? A little matter of fooling Odessa and saving Peter Burke's life."

Zahavi digressed. "I met him, you know, and I liked him. Clearly a man of integrity. Tell me, how does someone with Burke's reputation end up working with a man like you?"

_A man like you. _

As statements went, it didn't pull any punches, and Neal flinched at the deliberate honesty. He resented the fact that it bothered him. After all, what did he expect? He'd spent most of his life working outside the law. In plain parlance, he was a thief and a criminal. There was nothing romantic about it and he was no latter day Robin Hood.

He laughed a trifle bitterly. "No point asking me. I don't have an answer. They tell me I have amnesia."

"_Touché,"_ Zahavi was amused. "Perhaps he saw something in you worth saving, and after all, you're about to risk your life for him. You're an intelligent man with unusual skills. I think he was probably right."

"Are you offering me a job?"

Zahavi smiled again. "An interesting question. Such an offer would not be unprecedented. My government is always appreciative of anyone who does them a good turn. Unfortunately, when you're as threatened as we are, you take your friends wherever you find them."

First the FBI and now Mossad. Neal shook his head at the weirdness. He was living in some parallel universe where the boundaries had all been smudged. To use his talents and stay on the _right_ side of the law – it threw up a rather interesting issue. He guessed the answer might lie in the challenges it set, as opposed to the financial reward. There was no point even considering it. The whole thing was purely hypothetical. He was about to make a deal with a murderous Nazi and the objective was Peter Burke's life.

_The odds on a happy ending were long. _

He wasn't sure why it mattered so crucially, but it did though, and that was his priority. _Even more so than regaining his memories._ Talking of which – he pressed a hand to his temple. The pounding was back with a vengeance. For a second his vision went hazy and everything blurred in front of his eyes. _No time – he had no time for this._ He straightened up and blinked the dizziness away.

"Neal," Diana was calling his name and speaking into her headset. She sounded urgent and a little excited, with an obvious lift to her voice. "Jones just received a message from Peter. They're tracking it right now – _he's alive."_

Swallowing hard, he leant his head back against the car seat and closed his eyes. The sense of relief he felt was almost palpable and out of all expected proportion, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and for some reason, he could breathe again. Thank god, the onus was no longer on him. It made him giddy and strangely light-headed.

"Excellent news, but it changes nothing," Zahavi's tone was crisp. "Our meeting with Schiller must go ahead as planned. If we can get him to accept the forgery _and_ disclose the whereabouts of Special Agent Burke, then we still have him and Odessa on kidnapping and extortion charges. It's too good an opportunity to miss."

"To say nothing of assault," murmured Neal, recalling the way Peter Burke had been so brutally struck by the van in the park. He ran his fingertips under the fedora and lightly over the row of sutures adorning his skull. "We owe the bastard some payback."

"Are you sure you feel up to it?"

Diana Berrigan met his glance in the rear-view mirror, and once again, he was absurdly grateful for the small gesture of concern. Neal tapped the cardboard tube containing the rolled-up copy of the Velasquez and forced a laconic smile.

"Wouldn't want all my hard work to go to waste."

Truth was, he was buzzing with suppressed rage and anger. It wasn't only Peter Burke who had gone missing from Riverside Park three days ago. Schiller and his goons had taken something far more personal and just as important to him. _By erasing years of his memory, they had effectively stolen his life. _It was something he might never regain and would agonise over forever. The lack of closure was the worse thing, a bit like losing a book before the ending. There were chapters – especially those about Kate – which would haunt with their lingering doubts.

Peter Burke was alive, that was the main thing, but it was time to take revenge on Schiller.

"I'm turning into Waverly Place," Diana interrupted his reverie. "It's probably better if I let you out now. We have people all over the area and a surveillance team stationed within listening range."

Neal looked at his watch. He was due to rendezvous with Schiller at the Washington Square Arch in ten minutes time, and could easily walk the distance in less. He tightened his grip on the forgery as Diana pulled into the kerb.

Once she had parked, she swivelled around in her seat and regarded him matter-of-factly. "Don't take any chances or do anything rash. Keep in mind he has to take the forgery and then confirm Peter's location."

He raised his eyebrows as he placed the fedora on his head. "It's called amnesia, not senility, Diana. Even I can remember that."

"Don't be so sure," she shook her head and grinned back at him. "And it's not just about the memory thing. You have a tendency to shoot off at tangents and act like a wild card."

His smile faded. "Not this time. I want him as badly as you do."

"Good," Zahavi placed a warning hand on his arm. "Just don't make the mistake of underestimating him. Anton Schiller didn't get where he is by anything other than fanaticism and utter ruthlessness. The man is a cold-blooded killer and certainly not a fool. Once we have him, we can take down Linzer International and strike a major blow against Odessa. No East Coast hub here in North America. Their US structure left in disarray."

"I can do this."

"Then you'd better hurry. We don't want to run out of time."

Evening sun lit the tree-lined avenue as Neal made his way along the sidewalk. The city was warm and hazy as it reflected the golden light. It was beautiful, in-spite of the danger, and the artist in him wanted to paint it. A unique colour-palette of sunlight and shade only seen at this time of day. People jostled by on their way home from work and tourists strolled past him unhurriedly. He envied their apparent normality; all the safe and orderly lives.

Perhaps this was what the new Neal was searching for, some kind of harmony, a sense of continuity, an end to the running and hiding and the heart-stopping thrill of the chase. There was enough of the old Neal inside him to recoil from the sudden image. And yet he couldn't help wondering a little... maybe something fundamental had changed.

Hard to believe, but nonetheless the evidence seemed to be all around him. Even the old Neal would find it hard to refute when the proof stared him right in the face. There was only one fly in the ointment. So what the hell was going on with the cargo? The colossal, in-your-face, impossible to ignore, ginormous-sized elephant in the room?

He wasn't the only person waiting near the arch. It was a perfect reference point. He watched idly as a couple met up and linked arms before sauntering off into the park. For a brief instant, he caught the girl's eye and she smiled and flicked her hair back. The gesture was roguish, a little impudent, and for a second he was reminded of Kate.

"Shall we take a walk, Mister Caffrey?"

He hadn't heard the man approach him. What with the girl, his thoughts, and the head injury, he really _must_ be off his game. Nodding abruptly, he refocused his mind and followed Schiller under the arch.

"A perfect evening for a stroll in the park. Nice hat, by the way."

Anton Schiller wasn't quite what he'd expected. The man was elegant and sure of himself, urbane and expensively dressed. There was no sign of swastikas or jackboots, but nonetheless, Neal sensed an element of danger. There was a definite hint of cruelty and latent brutality hidden underneath the façade.

"I have what you asked for," Neal cut to the chase. He was not in the mood to make small talk. "As promised, a sample of the cargo, in return for a proof of life."

Schiller appeared to ignore him until they reached the centre of the plaza. He sat down on the edge of the fountain and patted the space at his side. "Show me."

Neal sat and pulled the canvas out of the tube. "A middle-period Velasquez, last listed in 1937 as part of a private collection in Vienna. As far as I can see, it's the real deal, although it's been a little – _shall we say_ – difficult to get anything authenticated, as I'm sure you can understand."

He was pretty confident of the forgery but less sure about Anton Schiller. There was no way of defining the man's expertise or particular knowledge of art. The copy would fool most people, even the so-called connoisseurs, but this time the stakes had been higher. It was no longer concerning the thrill of the con but more about saving a life. In-spite of everything, the fractured skull, the amnesia, he had poured his heart and soul into the forgery. Every layer of paint, every brush-stroke, he'd done his utmost to get it just right.

_Moment of truth. _

Neal held his breath as Schiller carefully unrolled half the canvas and held the painting up to the light. He studied it for a few seconds, and then ran a well-manicured fingernail across the veneer, in what would have been a sacrilegious act if the painting had actually been real. It proved the man was little more than an amateur and Neal exhaled in relief.

"Incredible," Schiller sounded almost reverent. "Almost fantastic, even, and to think there's more where this came from. That all of it survived intact."

"And Peter Burke, has _he_ survived intact?" Neal went straight for the jugular. He was mindful of the audio-surveillance team and determined to get the answer on tape. "I've shown you mine, now it's your turn. I need to know Agent Burke's still alive."

Schiller rolled the fake Velasquez back into the tube and reached for the breast pocket of his blazer. Neal stared down at the proffered object. It wasn't quite what he'd been expecting.

He raised his eyebrows. "A key to my tracker – I take the deal has changed?"

Schiller got to his feet and shrugged his shoulders. "Not changed, just modified a little. I'll take you to Burke in person once you've shown me the rest of the cargo."

"Sure, and then you kill both of us," Neal shook his head. "No dice."

Schiller handed him an FBI badge. "Here's your proof Agent Burke is my guest. It's all you're getting for now."

"Not good enough."

Neal took the badge slowly and scanned cautiously around for the promised backup. He'd got the proof and confession they'd wanted, now all he needed was the cavalry to arrive. He turned the badge over in his hand and then slipped it carefully into his breast pocket. It fitted against his sternum and lay protectively over his heart. There was something incredibly poignant about this particular object. It was almost an element of Agent Vanilla and felt so much a part of the man. Whichever way this fiasco turned out, he determined to keep it safely. With any luck they'd both walk away in one piece, and in the end, he could hand it back in person.

"You leave me with no choice," Schiller gave a mock sigh and removed something else from his pocket. "This ingenious little piece of equipment is called a remote detonator. The place where we're holding Peter Burke has been wired with high explosive. It would take less than a second to enter the code and blow the building sky-high."

Neal paled. "Assuming I take you to the cargo, there's nothing to stop you doing that anyway."

"Once I have the cargo, the location is yours, and I'll hand you the detonator. Until then, it remains my insurance that you won't try and double-cross me. But no more of this, we have a car waiting, and I'm eager to conclude our business. You see, Caffrey, I've thought of everything, so I suggest you remove the tracker. _If you want Peter Burke to survive this, then you really don't have much choice."_

* * *

><p>Elizabeth was leaning up against the window when Reese Hughes came into the office. She hadn't slept for over twenty-four hours but couldn't bring herself to sit in Peter's chair. At least here she felt a little closer to him. Not much, but it was better than nothing. Her refusal had been quick and unwavering when they'd wanted to drive her home again.<p>

Right now the familiar was too painful and everything reminded her of Peter, from the scent of his skin on the bedclothes to his favourite mug by the sink.

Only three nights ago in the courtyard... dear god, she should have taken more notice. A dark shadow had fallen across them and warned her something was wrong. The danger had been real and threatening like a storm brewing somewhere in the distance. Peter had been quiet and a little too grave and she remembered his sense of unease.

By some unspoken agreement, they'd abandoned the used plates on the decking, and then he'd scooped her urgently into his arms, one hand cupping the back of her head. Her husband was one hell of a kisser, his mouth firm and amazingly sensual, but that night he'd been both tender and demanding, the force and passion buckling her legs. They barely made it as far as the top of the stairs before she was panting and breathless. The rest was a blur of sensation and skin and the feeling she might actually be flying.

It was different and urgent and serious. An affirmation of something so precious. She realised now he'd been scared of losing her, battling demons and fears in his head. Afterwards, they'd been shaken and emotional, clinging on to one another in the darkness. She'd listened to the steady beat of his heart and been conscious of tears on her face.

_A goodbye._

She refused to acknowledge it, but the inner voice was horribly persistent. If she listened, or gave the wretched thing credence, then she might never see Peter again.

_If only she'd paid more attention to her fears, perhaps Peter would still be with her._ The thought was treacherous and horribly inevitable, and logically, she knew it was wrong. In reality, she had been powerless. There was nothing she could have done.

Peter was decent and steadfast and responsible; he took his job very seriously. It was part of the reason she'd fallen for him and why she loved him so much. He put duty before personal safety, and maybe even before friendship, and because of this credo, the business with Neal had been tearing him slowly apart.

_Oh god, Peter. _

She did not want to lose him. The thought was beyond comprehension. To imagine he was no longer with her... no longer somewhere out there in the world. Danger had always been a part of his job. She was neither naïve nor stupid. She had placed her faith firmly in Peter's intelligence, and his pledge not to take senseless risks. He would always do his best to come home to her. He'd made her a solemn promise; _to do everything in his power to return at the end of the day. _

Taking a shaky breath, she turned and faced Peter's boss, her eyes asking all the questions she didn't dare put a voice to. If the news was bad then she wanted to know. No candy-coating or senseless platitudes. She told herself she was tough enough, strong enough to withstand the pain. Truth was, she was no longer sure. Everything was so fragile, so brittle. She was hanging together by a whisper, on the brink of an emptiness so terrible, she might never be whole again.

Hughes didn't need to open his mouth. One look at his face told her everything. Her legs refused to support her and she reached blindly for the edge of the desk.

"Tell me?"

He cleared his throat. "Clinton Jones received a phone call from Peter. We managed to trace it using GPS signal to a property out near Gerritsen Beach. Jones is leading a retrieval squad now."

In-spite of her initial flush of gratitude and sheer relief, El leaned on the desk and latched onto the words he _didn't_ say. "Using a GPS signal? Why couldn't Peter tell you himself?"

"It's not as clear cut as it seems."

"Obviously not," she swallowed hard. "They hurt him, didn't they?"

Hughes sighed. "I won't lie to you, Elizabeth. Peter didn't sound in very good shape."

"Is he safe?"

Hughes shook his head. "As far as we know, he's still a prisoner. He wasn't able to tell Jones where he was, or how he got hold of the cell."

"He fought back," she lifted her head proudly. "Of course he did. He must have figured it was time to come home."

"Quite," he paused and looked suddenly uncomfortable. "There's something else I should tell you. I just had a message from Agent Berrigan reporting on Caffrey's meeting with Schiller. Once we knew Peter's location, it should have been a relatively simple matter of getting the man to accept the forgery and confess to holding Peter against his will - "

Cold water trickled down her spine, and she knew then – _simply knew_, that whatever he said would be bad. "But?"

"He called our bluff – _big time._ The disused church where they're holding Peter has been wired with high explosive. Schiller has a remote detonator which can be triggered whenever he chooses. Standard protocol dictates we evacuate the area and stand clear until the Bomb Disposal Unit can deactivate the device and declare it safe again. Technically, Jones won't be able to approach the building, even though Peter's still inside."

She did sit then, when her legs gave way, all the strength draining out of her body. It felt like she was trapped in a nightmare, all blind tunnels with no means of escape. The first glimmer of light . . . _it wasn't fair._ They were within a hairsbreadth of saving him, but one little push of a button could put an end to all of her dreams.

_So close and_ _yet so damned faraway. _

She looked up at Hughes and nodded. Amazingly, her voice remained steady, although a part of her wanted to scream and tear her hair in pain and sheer frustration. "He wants Neal to take him straight to the cargo and Peter is the insurance."

"Apparently no harm will come to either one of them. A straight exchange – the cargo for their lives."

"What cargo, there_ is_ no cargo." El's words were laced with sudden anguish. "Or at least, not that Neal's aware of. How's he going to get out of this one, when he can hardly remember his name?"

_**TBC **_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Nine<strong>_

Neal put a hand up to his temple - thinking too hard made his head ache, but they were walking back under the Washington Arch and he had to come up with a plan. There was no sign of an eminent rescue and the cavalry hadn't put in an appearance. He guessed they'd picked-up the conversation and overheard what Schiller had said.

_A four digit code and Peter was dead. _

All over in a couple of seconds.

It looked as if Schiller held all the aces. The man had come well-prepared.

A black SUV pulled up alongside the crosswalk and Neal felt his heart-rate increase. It was not the time or place for confrontation. Not with the detonator still in Schiller's hand.

"Our ride, I believe," Schiller nodded towards the car. "After you, Mister Caffrey."

It was not the FBI or Mossad, and for a crazy moment, Neal didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. His would-be saviours were obviously re-grouping in light of Schiller's sudden _coup d'etat._ They could still track him via the microdot he'd concealed in the thick paint of the forgery, but any sign of a forced intervention and Schiller would blow Peter sky-high.

A man stepped out of the back of the SUV and held the door wide open. The invitation was inherently clear and Neal's heart sank a little further. Once he got in his options were limited. He would effectively be Schiller's prisoner. The presence of the microdot was comforting, but he was reluctant to get into the car. His breathing increased exponentially as his whole world contracted around him. He was trapped, herded into a corner and he couldn't see any escape.

A large group of families stepped off the crosswalk and they were surrounded by children and strollers. Neal was jostled to one side of the party and separated away from the crowd.

_He could run. _

Slip away behind the archway. Head for the trees while he no longer had the tracker. He could find Moz and lie low until they gave up the search and then pick up the pieces of his life. The sudden rush of blood was enticing and the thought of freedom almost idyllic. He took two steps towards the park entrance and paused. _If he ran, Peter Burke would die._

Burke would die and they would hunt him down. Either Mossad, the FBI or Odessa. It would never _ever_ be over. He would be running for the rest of his life. And then one day, he might regain his memory, and find out the awful price he'd paid for freedom. He knew then he couldn't do it, and the thought flickered out and died.

There was a storage place down by the river which Moz used to lay up certain items until he could move them on. It was disused, accessible and best of all quiet. He had borrowed it himself from time to time. Neal sighed; _always assuming it was still there, of course._ He was thinking back at least seven years. For all he knew it had long since been demolished and replaced with a condominium. Moz could have sold it to a property developer or turned it into trendy warehouse lofts. He hoped not – _really hoped not._ If it was still there, he was in with a small chance.

The group of families moved through the archway and Neal was left standing on the sidewalk. The urge to run still beat like a pulse in his veins and he was slightly annoyed with himself. This was it then – he'd burned all his bridges for the sake of a bunch of lost memories. His last prospect of freedom had vanished, snatched away like a leaf in the wind.

Schiller moved back to his side and read his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. "Tempted to run?"

Walking across to the car, Neal turned around and looked the man straight in the eye. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Schiller smiled in acknowledgement. "Lucky for Peter Burke."

They drove through the evening traffic with Neal giving cursory directions. The driver kept a close eye on the mirror, but there was no obvious sign of pursuit. It was tempting to look over his shoulder, but Neal resisted the impulse. He could not afford to take any risks which might give the game away. With any luck the microdot was working and the cavalry was hard on their tail. He had a feeling he was going to need them if the storage shed was no longer there.

_Who was he kidding;_ he was going to need them anyway. His plan was weak and decidedly shaky. There were too many what-ifs and maybes and a reliance that nothing had changed.

It was all he had.

All he could offer.

The walls seemed to be closing in around him. His gunshot wound was hurting like the devil. A steady pulsing throb within his head. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome, he had pulled out all the stops to help them. Done his best under car-crash conditions, in a bid to save Peter Burke's life.

Evening sunlight glinted on the river as they pulled up alongside the old warehouse. To his relief, it all seemed just as he remembered with no sign of the dreaded trendy lofts. So far, so good, he exhaled through his nose, feeling calmer and curiously light-headed. In the scheme of things, it was a minor victory, but still the first one to work in his favour. Maybe, just maybe, the tide had turned. Neal felt a small surge of hope.

_Always assuming Moz stashed the key in the same place, of course._ His muscles tensed as Schiller watched him run his fingers along the underside of the guttering to one side of the sliding door. The key-safe box was still hidden there, and Neal smiled grimly and offered up a silent message of thanks to Lady Luck. Seems the gods truly were looking down on him, and he prayed they would continue to do so. There was one last gamble he intended to play, and he really needed fate on his side.

"No tricks." Schiller stepped forward. He looked excited and slightly distracted, eyes alight with anticipation at the thought of seeing the U-boat cargo. "Don't forget I still hold all the aces." He indicated the detonator in his right hand.

Neal nodded abruptly, and turned away. Once again, he was glad of the fedora, it was uncanny how the man could read his mind. He slid the heavy door back on its runners and quickly slipped into the yawning darkness. _No tricks_ – just one last desperate play – and an eleventh-hour dependence on Moz. The light switches were housed in a metal box to the right of the corrugated doorway, but instead of flooding the warehouse with light, Neal felt carefully for the secret shelf behind.

_Thank you, Moz. _

He raised a mental toast to his paranoid friend and curled his fist around the hidden hand gun. Fully loaded, he could tell by the weight of it. One of Moz's contingency plans.

He cleared his throat. "I'm having a small problem with the lighting. Hold-on, I think I nearly have it - "

"I'm warning you, Caffrey," Schiller took a step closer and looked over his shoulder. "Don't think for a second you can…"

"_Can what?" _

Neal swung quickly and hooked an arm around Schiller's neck. He held the Glock to the man's forehead, the blunt nose pressed up against his temple. The two goons took a hurried step forward, their own guns raised directly at Neal.

"Can what?" he repeated, through gritted teeth. "Seems I _can _do a little more than you thought. Tell your men to back off, Schiller, and don't imagine for a second, I won't use this. They step closer, I pull the trigger. It seems we have an _impasse_."

"Do as he says," Schiller nodded, tersely. "A smart move, Mister Caffrey, I applaud you. It appears I made an error of judgement. Agent Burke has a great deal of faith you, and it seems after all, he was right."

Neal swallowed, and in-spite of the tension, Schiller's words had a powerful effect on him. _Peter Burke had a great deal of faith in him._ A band squeezed somewhere in the region of his heart. He gripped hold of the gun a little tighter and determined he would not let him down.

"Peter Burke's a very smart man. Now give me the detonator."

Schiller smiled. "Don't imagine you have the upper hand, you've merely levelled the playing field. You said yourself, we've reached _impasse_. There's still time to work out a deal."

"No deals," Neal was done with niceties. He nudged the gun against Schiller's temple, and using his free hand, patted down the man's jacket in search of his cell and then quickly dialled Berrigan's number.

She answered almost on the last digit. "What's happening?"

"You need to come get me right now. I take it you know where I am?"

"We know, thanks to our Mossad friends. And Schiller?"

"I have him, but there's a slight problem. He still has the detonator."

A beat and then; "Copy that. I'll tell Jones."

Neal felt a flush of relief. "Be careful. There are two heavily armed goons outside the warehouse. Schiller and I will be inside."

He ended the call, and keeping his eyes on the two now palpably uneasy Odessa men, took a step back into the warehouse and pushed the sliding door closed. His arm ached from the strain of holding the Glock up against Schiller's temple, but Neal knew he couldn't let it waver. He wasn't fooled by the designer clothes or Schiller's façade of urbanity. The man was clearly a predator who would turn at the first scent of blood.

"The FBI, I take it?" The self-satisfied tone had gone from Schiller's voice and he sounded slightly puzzled instead. "So if meeting me today was a set-up, then what's your angle in all of this, Caffrey? A man like you wouldn't give up a fortune in art just to save Peter Burke's life?"

In another time and place this might be funny, and Schiller was unaware of the paradox. His choice of words were almost identical to those Rom Zahavi had used.

"A man like me," Neal repeated.

_But he didn't know what kind of man he was. _

Everyone believed they had a piece of him. Thought they understood the aspects and angles. Rom Zahavi, Reese Hughes… even Schiller. They had a notion they knew better than him. Neal twisted his lips, couldn't help it, and the irony was truly painful. _Was he the kind of man to sell out his partner?_ He had lost all true sense of perspective. Would he sacrifice another human life for a cache of blood-stained, Nazi treasure?

Is that what they really thought of him?

_Is that what he thought of himself?_

God, he wished Berrigan would hurry. Both his arm and his head were aching. The line of sutures tightened over the wound and dug into his skull like a claw. He needed sleep and he needed some morphine. It was the one thing he was actually sure of. When this was over – whatever the outcome – he was going to stay in bed for a week.

"_A man like you_," Schiller continued, "a thief and conman of your reputation would have considered losing Burke as collateral before skipping out of the country. You should have taken a portion of the cargo, cut your losses and then gone underground. Use your head, man, we still have time. My organisation is very powerful. If you come with me now, we can still cut a deal, and who knows, I might leave Burke alive."

Neal laughed then, he couldn't help it. He was trapped in a grotesque kind of fantasy. His head felt muzzy and strangely euphoric, like it usually did after too much red wine. _Enough – he'd had more than enough of this – and it was high time it came to an end._ He manhandled Schiller away from the door and then flooded the warehouse with light.

"Take a look – go on, take a long hard look – can you see any sign of the cargo?" The warehouse was conspicuously empty. No wooden boxes or containers, not a packing crate anywhere in sight. "_Everything_ – it was all for nothing. Your precious loot no longer exists."

Schiller looked around in bewilderment. "No cargo… but I don't understand."

"You were wrong about almost everything," Neal pressed on ruthlessly. "The U-boat _was_ destroyed in the explosion. As far as I know, the cargo went with it. Billions of dollars of irreplaceable art, sadly all of it gone up in smoke. There was no theft that I'm aware of. No scam or any kind of conspiracy. It seems you were wrong about a lot of things, but most of all, about Peter Burke."

"He shot Adler."

"He was forced to. The man was a killer. Peter Burke is as clean as a whistle. An out and out company man."

"The Velasquez - you're saying it's a forgery?"

Neal smirked. "Pretty good, don't you think?"

Schiller's smile was tight with anger. "Apparently, good enough to fool me."

"Don't feel too bad about it. You're not the first or the most highly qualified. There are a few Neal Caffrey _originals_ hanging on various walls."

"What now?"

There was the sound of vehicles and shouting outside which heralded the onset of a rescue. The noise was music to Neal's ears and he closed his eyes briefly in relief. He was in no shape and even worse mood to keep listening to Schiller's arrogant crap.

Tightening his weakening grip on the gun, he kept his voice matter of fact. "What say you hand over the detonator and walk out of here with some dignity? A grand gesture, one last act of decency. Help send Peter Burke home to his wife."

Schiller tensed against him. "If you knew any history, Mister Caffrey, then you'd realise how facile that sounded. You don't win wars with acts of decency. Grand gestures are for weak men and fools. One can only have strength through efficiency, the ability to be thorough and ruthless." He paused and then said sardonically. "In a way, we have something in common. Don't pretend _you _don't see and despise them. You live your life outside so-called society and don't play by their mindless rules."

"I'm nothing like you, Schiller," the room swung crazily around him. Neal made an effort to hold onto the Glock and fought a sudden urge to be sick.

"Don't kid yourself. It's all about winning. Who's the strongest, the smartest, most superior. You see something you want and you take it, regardless of who stands in your way."

"I don't hurt people. I don't take them hostage or threaten to blow them sky-high."

Schiller was scornful. "Really, Caffrey? How incredibly noble. To be honest, I was expecting more from you, and at the very least, a little candour. Don't tell me you believe the old chestnut that theft is a victimless crime? You're smart; you can see the big picture. Inevitably, _someone_ will get hurt, and the weakest will fall by the wayside. It's taken sixty years for the world to wake-up, but a big change is on the horizon. People are beginning to release that maybe Adolf Hitler was right. We are all going to have to make sacrifices and the struggle ahead won't be easy. In this case, it might be my freedom, but in yours, it means Peter Burke's life."

_Not this time._

Not on his watch.

Neal ground the muzzle of the gun against Schiller's temple. "I can pull this trigger before you can enter the code."

"But _you _don't hurt people, Mister Caffrey," Schiller was intentionally mocking. "And can you afford to risk it? I've already pressed the first two digits. I can input the others in a heartbeat and blow Agent Burke into oblivion."

"No – actually, you can't." Neal took a breath and pulled the con of his life. "You see, Peter Burke _is_ a very smart man. Earlier today, we received a call from him. From a disused church up near Gerritsen Beach. He'll be on his way home by now."

"You're bluffing," Schiller ground out in fury and shock. For the first time, his mask seemed to slip. His fingers hovered over the control-pad. "There's no way he could have escaped."

"_FBI – stand clear from the door!"_

Neal relaxed at the sound of Berrigan's voice and Schiller must have sensed the slight movement. He pushed back and caught Neal off-balance, jabbing brutally hard with his elbow. Neal grunted in pain and temporarily loosened his hold around the other man's neck as he fought not to lose the gun. He stepped forward again in an instant as Schiller stumbled and almost dropped the detonator, reaching for his wrist in a desperate attempt to stop him from entering the code. The Glock went spinning across the floor as he lost it in the ensuing struggle. They went down in a sprawling tangle of limbs as he wrenched Schiller's arm above his head.

His vision blurred and the room seemed to oscillate. Neal could feel his grip was failing. He squeezed harder with determination, but his fingers began to weaken and slip. _Not now_. He dug his nails in viciously and heard Schiller swear beneath him. He was losing all sense of reality and something was wrong with his head. Schiller was a great deal stronger than he looked and twisted beneath him like a snake.

More shouting and the crash of metal as the door slid back on its runners. Diana Berrigan advanced on them warily, her gun held out at arms length. A team of agents with FBI emblazoned on their vests moved out in a fan-shape around her. Neal was vaguely aware of their presence but he was focused on only one thing.

_The detonator. _

"You _were_ bluffing," Schiller shifted his body-weight and regained a little more purchase. His lips curled in a snarl of anger and triumph as he stared up into Neal's face. "Don't you see, I can't allow you to win? Say goodbye to your friend, Agent Burke."

"_Never."_

Muscles trembling with desperation, Neal tensed for another surge of effort. He grasped hold of Schiller's wrist with both hands, smashing it down on the concrete floor. Something cracked, and Schiller cried out in pain as Neal forced a final advantage. He tightened his grasp around the man's broken bones and gave them an extra squeeze. Schiller bucked and then shrieked in agony as his fingers uncoiled spasmodically. Neal gave his arm a last violent shake and the detonator dropped from his hand.

Someone – he thought maybe Berrigan - swooped in and plucked it to safety. Neal reeled away from Schiller and heaved over onto his side. Everything was noise and confusion, a cacophony of people and voices. He lay very still and tried to breathe through his mouth as his pulse rate beat time in his head. The warehouse floor was curiously smooth and cold and smelled very slightly of engine oil. With any luck they would leave him alone and he could stay here and rest for a while.

_Over._

The damned thing was over at last. With any luck, they'd saved Agent Vanilla. He'd kept his promise to Elizabeth Burke. He just hoped it wasn't in vain.

"You okay?"

He looked up at Berrigan. "Tell me you deactivated it?"

She nodded, her face breaking into a relieved grin. "Three digits – you stopped him in time. And besides, your crazy gamble gave our Mossad friends time to come up with another handy piece of technology. They brought along a signal jamming device."

"Thank God," he smiled back, and then swallowed, the adrenalin draining out of him. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome, at least in theory, Peter Burke was safe. He raised a shaky hand to his temple. "Is Burke all right, do you know how he is? That van side-swiped him pretty hard."

"He's not out yet, they haven't got to him. The area is still cordoned off until the Bomb Disposal Squad can confirm it's clear. I told Jones we secured the detonator, and as far I know, Peter's safe. Talking of all right…" she crouched down beside him and studied him rather more closely. "You're looking pretty crappy yourself."

"Pale and interesting, maybe, but I've never looked crappy in my life."

He was trying his best to be plucky, but in truth he felt really wretched. The struggle with Schiller had weakened him and amplified the noise in his head. Bracing himself, he tried to push up. _Big mistake, his skull was exploding._ He sank back in a confused haze of nausea and decided the floor was his friend.

"Neal, can you hear me?" Her voice was loud and insistent and she sounded worried again. "Come on, Neal, open your eyes."

He opened his eyes obediently and squinted up at Diana; _or rather what he thought was Diana._ She was fading into the mist. Part of him, the logical part of him, knew it was frankly impossible, but he was tired, so tired of the hammering pain and it was simpler to go with the flow.

"Head hurts," he was slurring.

"I know," her hand was surprisingly gentle on the side of his face. "Just lie still and take it easy. The medics are on their way."

"Two things," he fumbled for his breast pocket and handed her Burke's FBI badge. "I'd really like you to take care of. The fedora, it goes without saying, and Agent Vanilla's ID."

She took the badge and looked down at it. "I'll make sure he gets this," and then clearing her throat, she tilted her head and gave him a slight smile. "The fedora's a different matter. It would suit me a whole lot better than you, so I might just have to seize it as evidence."

"I wish - " _god, what was he saying, but the words seemed to tumble out regardless._ "Wish I didn't know about the cargo. Don't know for certain I have it, but kinda hope I never did."

"Me too," she was clearly humouring him. "It's what we_ all_ hope, especially Peter. Now isn't the time to worry about that. You did a really good thing today."

"_A good thing…"_ it was getting darker. Either that or his vision was waning. "Doing good things was never the problem. It's the bad things that always land me in trouble and I'm pretty damned great at those too."

"Don't we know it," her voice was sardonic, but also a trifle amused. "Guess it's time for me to do the guardian angel thing. Don't tell me anything you might regret later. I really think you need to shut-up."

"You promised - "

She held his hand and sighed. "Yes, for my sins, I promised. And I intend to keep my word."

"That's good," he tried to hold on tight, but for some reason, his fingers kept slipping. "Elizabeth told me I liked you, and know what, I think she was right."

"Neal?"

He could hear her calling his name, but it echoed as though from a distance. He was falling – free-falling away from her – and too exhausted to put up a fight.

Something was watching him, somewhere in the distance. He moved closer to a place where he could see it. An animal, sleek and beautifully camouflaged was uncurling his limbs from a tree. He lay back and studied it carefully, fascinated by its elegance and grace.

_It was a leopard, a leopard was watching him, and it seemed to be changing its spots._

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Ten<strong>_

El sighed and stared out across the water. At any other time it would have been striking. The sea was deceptively mellow and capped with the last rays of gold. It was the hour between evening and darkness when the sun appeared to sink on the horizon. The light was rose-tinted and hazy, and still warm from the heat of the day. They came up here sometimes with Satchmo, on evenings like this in the summer. Holding hands like a pair of teenagers as they walked around the curve of the bay.

Right now, it was too much of a contrast, and the beauty was brittle and tainted. It felt breakable, unbearably fragile, as though she was hovering on the brink of an abyss.

Maybe she shouldn't have come here, or dug her heels in and been so insistent. She should have gone home like Hughes had suggested and simply done as she'd damned well been told.

_She hadn't though. _

Instead, she'd been stubborn. They had no right to keep her away from him. She would have found her way up here by hook or by crook, even if it meant taking a cab. It hadn't been much of an argument, and in the end, Hughes had submitted. He'd backed off in less than a minute after looking long and hard at her face.

Peter was here and she wanted to be with him, even if it all went pear-shaped. _Especially if it all went pear-shaped._ It was her right to be at his side. She chewed at her bottom lip anxiously. At his side was a huge misnomer. They'd set the cordon to 500 metres and kept her well-clear of the scene.

Someone – she thought it was probably Jones – had given her an FBI jacket. She shivered in-spite of the lingering warmth and pulled the garment tighter around her shoulders. Right now she was colder than she'd ever been, frozen through to the very core of her being. If she lost him, if something terrible happened, she might never be warm again.

"This is ridiculous," Jones chafed impatiently, echoing her own fractured thoughts. "They know we secured the detonator. I get the whole damned protocol thing, but I'm willing to risk going inside."

"No one goes in until they okay it," Reese Hughes avoided her eyes.

Elizabeth turned to Jones and rested her hand on his arm. "Thank you, I appreciate the gesture, but the protocol is there for a reason. Peter wouldn't let you endanger yourself, and I'm sure they won't take much longer."

The words hurt but she really meant them, and she wondered if she was channelling Peter, her so very principled husband who always opted to do the right thing. She would hazard it herself in a heartbeat if saving his life was a certainty, but the bomb disposal unit were taking no chances, and refused to let anyone inside. Sometimes terrorists used secondary timer switches which could activate a subsequent explosion. The bomb itself might be highly unstable if inexpertly or clumsily made. Going in blind just might trip the odds and trigger a major disaster.

The look on Jones' face spoke volumes but this time he kept his mouth shut. She was grateful at least, for small mercies and the agonising words left unsaid. There was one thing they all silently acknowledged; Peter was hurt, maybe badly. There was no answer at the end of the cell-phone. He could be critical, perhaps even dying. To put it bluntly, he might even be dead. Each minute, every second was precious – could mean the difference between life and death.

_They were locked in a terrible race against time._

Jones turned away and El guessed he was about to try calling Peter again, but she was already sure it was futile. The cell would ring until it went through to voicemail. In her heart, she knew he wouldn't pick-up.

To make things even worse if that was possible, Diana had reported in with a terse but devastating message. Neal had collapsed at the scene of Schiller's arrest and the medics had diagnosed probable complications arising from his previous head injury. As information went, it was shockingly brief, and she would call back once she had further news.

El dashed at her eyes as they filled up with tears. It was not the time or place for a show of weakness. Until she heard different, they would bring Peter out, and until then, she had to stay resolute.

It was darker now and something was happening. Hughes was on his cell and walking away from them. She moved closer and tried her hardest to eavesdrop and listen in on his conversation. As she watched, several vehicles approached them and pulled over at the edge of the perimeter. She couldn't help a tiny surge of hope as two ambulances moved to the front.

She glanced across at Jones. "Is there any news?"

"It looks like they may narrow the cordon. With any luck, they might let the EMT's through. They'll let us know as soon as they can."

By now Hughes had finished his call. He flicked off his cell and walked purposefully back in her direction. "Bomb Disposal has secured the church and is prepared to let the EMT crews enter the building. Jones, take your team in with them and report to the officer in charge. He knows you're coming and will escort you to the crime scene. Until I hear different, everything goes through him. Right now, they're still running the show."

El twisted her hands together and blanched at his use of '_crime scene._' The words sounded so cold and final, as though Peter were already dead. "Have they seen Peter, has anyone spoken to him. Do they know if he's still alive?"

"There are two confirmed casualties, one in the church and another locked in the cellar. I'm afraid that's all I know. I'm assuming one of them will be Peter, but I don't have any more details. I'm sorry Elizabeth, but I can't let you through. As a civilian, it's unauthorised. Besides, Peter would never forgive me if I did anything to put you at risk."

"Peter might never forgive _you_," she tracked the first ambulance longingly with her eyes as it moved slowly through the perimeter. "But if anything happened and I wasn't there, then I'd never forgive myself."

Reese Hughes studied her face for a moment and then seemed to arrive at a decision. He looked tired and an awful lot older as he ran a hand through his remaining hair. "Follow me across to the car. I'm going to personally take you in closer, although I can't let you go into the building. We'll wait with the Incident Support Officer at a designated safe distance. It's the best I can do, but at least you'll be there when they eventually bring Peter out."

For a second her throat closed over. Hughes was making a tremendous gesture, and for her part she was prepared to grab hold of it and do anything and everything she was told. Peter needed her, she knew without saying, and the certainty was close to overwhelming. Her feelings were almost primeval, driving her forward with obsessive urgency. She was fuelled with the desire to be with him - a deep longing to be there at his side.

"Thank you," she climbed up into the passenger seat, feeling shaky with gratitude and relief. "I promise not to get in the way."

His voice was gruff as he indicated her borrowed FBI jacket. "If anyone asks, you're my consultant."

He turned away and after another brief telephone conversation, managed to okay it for them to follow the emergency vehicles inside the perimeter. El strained her eyes through the windscreen in the gathering dusk and sat tensely on the edge of her seat. No one had spoken with her directly about Peter's treatment during captivity, but she guessed it had probably been brutal and was schooling herself for the worse.

_Torture._

The word was unspoken and glaring in horrible omission. Odessa was a group of fanatics and admirers of the Nazi regime. Even though Hughes had downplayed things, she was neither naïve nor stupid. Peter had been used for leverage. They would be lucky to find him unharmed. Closing her mind to the ghastly images it evoked, she tried not to picture his suffering, but it was hard to control her treacherous thoughts and prevent them from running free rein. _They had hurt him,_ that was a given, and in itself pretty scary to deal with, but the prospect of emotional trauma was suddenly and frighteningly real.

El fought back an abrupt surge of nausea and prayed she would be tough enough. Not Peter, she never once doubted him. Her husband was exceptionally determined. More than that, he was filled with great inner strength and a vast moral sense of right and wrong. He would fight them until his dying breath, both mentally and physically, relying on all those hidden reserves and that famous Peter Burke stubborn streak.

_Even so. _

Just the thought of them abusing him, hurting him… she was rigid with apprehension and fury. Hughes parked the SUV close to the kerb and she gripped hold of the sides of her seat until her knuckles turned white. The church steps were a hundred yards away and the thick wooden doors stood wide open. It was consoling and yet truly frustrating to know Peter was inside. The ambulance was parked alongside them and the EMT's had entered the building. The wait was becoming unbearable as the minutes ticked slowly by.

For god's sake, it was Peter – _her Peter_ - in there. Her sense of frustration was mounting. She hung on to the seat a little tighter and fought back the urge to run from the car.

"What's taking so long?"

"I'll try and find out."

Hughes looked down at his cell and pressed speed dial. It took a few rings before Clinton Jones answered. She couldn't hear what he was saying but Hughes' face wore a look of dismay. _Not good, then._ It was as she'd expected, but it didn't help soften the blow. Her need to see him was all encompassing now and she couldn't sit and wait any longer.

_Bomb Disposal could stick their damned regulations_… her thoughts crystallised and reached a sharp form of clarity, and she almost laughed at the irony, so much for her earlier lecture to Jones on self-restraint and doing the right thing. _The right thing_ was being with Peter and to hell with their protocols and procedures. If she was in trouble, if their roles were reversed, he would move mountains to get to her side.

Being with him… nothing else really mattered, none of their rules or the threat of an explosion. Afterwards, they could do what they wanted… _slap her wrist, stick her sorry ass in jail. _

Resolve hardening, she reached for the door handle, and in a second, she was out of the car. Someone, she thought it was probably Hughes, was calling her name out urgently. She ignored him and slipped past the waiting ambulances as she headed for the doors of the church.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid you can't go in there." A black-helmeted bomb disposal officer waited at the bottom of the steps, and lifted his hand in an attempt to check her. "Ma'am, wait - "

El indicated her FBI jacket and side-stepped swiftly around him fully intent on her one-woman mission. She reached the top of the steps and had entered the church before he had time to prevent her. "I'm the most important member of Agent Burke's team, and right now, he needs me inside."

A stained glass window in front of her captured the dying rays of evening light and cast a ruby shadow across the neglected interior of the building. There was something almost ominous about it, as though the old church was bathed in blood. She shivered briefly and hesitated, right now _ominous_ wasn't part of her vocabulary. In her desperation to get closer to Peter she hadn't thought about the worse case scenario, but it hit home with an aching vengeance now that she was actually within a heartbeat of reaching her destination.

_He was okay – he_ _would make it._

She whispered the words like a mantra. Right now, she had to cowboy up and push her own selfish fears to one side. Nonetheless the atmosphere spooked her and the building seemed almost malevolent. The dark scent of old wood and incense evoked an impression of shadow and gloominess straight out of the pages of a gothic novel, and for a brief second, El had to force herself to take another step forwards.

_Not the church._

It was merely symbolic, and in-spite of her extreme anxiety, El was smart enough to realise her fears had a far more likely basis. Every thought, every natural instinct was driving her towards Peter's side. Part of her, the cowardly part of her, was terrified of what she might find there. Her subconscious mind was holding her back and throwing obstacles across her own path. To lose Peter now when she was so very close just didn't bear thinking about. Life without him was her total worse nightmare and one she had refused to acknowledge.

"_Please…"_

She wasn't really sure who she was asking, but somehow it seemed right to say it. Standing here in this place where so many before her had whispered their own desperate prayers. This was it, the actual moment of truth. She was here and there was no place to hide.

There was a recess up at the end of the aisle which looked as though it had once housed a pipe organ. The EMT's were working with their backs to her, and she could see a figure lying on the ground. _Peter… _for a brief second her legs almost buckled and her traitorous nerves seemed to fail her, but then need and sheer necessity took over and her feet fairly flew up the aisle.

Clinton Jones intercepted her and took hold of both her arms gently. "You shouldn't be here - "

"I _shouldn't_ be anywhere else," she rounded on him fiercely like a tigress. "He's my husband and I need to be with him. Don't you dare try and keep me away."

To his credit, Jones refused to back down. His voice faltered with sudden distress. "It's not good."

El sagged, some of the fight seeping out of her. "All the more reason I should be here. Please, Jones – _please_ don't send me away, I have to know how he is?"

"Bomb Disposal found him like this; he must have overcome the guy in the cellar. He hasn't moved since we got in here. He's been out of it the whole time."

_Out of it the whole time. _

"Let me go," shaking Jones off, she took a step forward. His demeanour had really frightened her. It was hard to see the usually unflappable Jones as rattled and upset as this.

"We're inside now," Hughes said grimly and a little breathlessly from behind them. He must have followed her into the church. He looked rather pointedly at Elizabeth and nodded with resignation. "No use fighting a losing battle, Jones, you may as well let her through."

She had known real deep fear once before in her life. The time Keller had kidnapped and threatened to kill her husband, but she'd been granted a happy ending and everything had turned out all right. She knew real fear again now, as with a small lurch in her heart, she moved forward into the recess and knelt down at Peter's side.

_Too pale, too still. _

He was both of those things, and the contrast was almost too painful. She remembered their last night together and how vital and urgent he'd been. _A goodbye_… the word seemed to haunt her like a ghost drifting through her subconscious. El blinked back a treacherous rush of tears and angrily pushed it away.

"Hon?"

The special endearment stuck in her throat. How she'd longed and prayed for this moment. _Not like this, though… dear god, not ever like this._ Peter was silent and appallingly broken.

"Come on, hon, open your eyes for me?" She forced a smile but her lips were trembling and she wrestled back a rising tide of panic. Breaking down plainly wasn't an option. She was of no use to him like this. "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere. It's over, I promise it's over, everyone's safe and they arrested Schiller. Oh Peter, I hope you can hear me, he won't ever hurt you again."

_Nothing – not so much as a flicker. _He was out cold and unresponsive to stimuli, and judging by the state of his injuries, it was probably a very good thing.

"I'm his wife," she answered one of the paramedic's wordless questions, and if he thought her presence here was strange, he had the grace not to voice it out loud. "How is he?"

The question was facile.

For god's sake, she had eyes in her head, and she could see what those bastards had done to him. His poor face was so battered and blood-stained and swollen that the features were barely recognisable. His hand too, as she reached for it, was livid and puffy with bruising. El swallowed a sudden rush of bile. She felt light-headed and sick with dread.

This was _Peter,_ her very own Peter… simply lying here weak and defenceless. There was something so wrong with this picture that she almost burst into tears. _Not yet, though._ She actually braced herself and sat up a little straighter. There would be plenty of time left for crying when she knew he would be okay. So often he was the strong one when she was scared or nervous and worried. Always ready with a smile or a comforting hug to chase away all her fears. He was oil on her troubled waters, the best kind of security blanket. It made it all the more shocking to see him as fragile as this.

"No breath sounds and distended neck veins," the paramedic looked urgently across at his companion. "Switching onto 100% oxygen, tension pneumothorax right lung. I want a needle compression kit, stat, or he's going into respiratory arrest." He looked up at El, "I'm sorry, you're going to have to move aside."

"Please," El placed her hand lovingly on Peter's forehead for one last time and kept her voice as steady as she could. "Come on, hon, I know you can do this. I need you to fight for me, Peter. Come back to me, I know you can do it. You know I love you so much."

Was it hope or imagination, but she could swear she saw his closed eyelids flicker. El moved out of the medic's way and shrank back against the wall. Her life was dissolving in front her – going to hell in the proverbial hand-basket. She was surrounded by a sea of people but she'd never felt quite so alone. Reese Hughes put an arm around her shoulders and she was glad of his physical presence. She felt hollow and achingly empty. There was a Peter-shaped hole in her soul.

She stood and watched with a sort of frozen calm as the paramedics measured a couple of finger-widths down from Peter's collar-bone and then inserted a horrific looking needle and plastic tube into his chest. They waited and then listened to his breathing again before taping the tube firmly in place. There was nothing – no reaction from Peter. He didn't flinch or move throughout the short procedure. El focused on the shapely length of his hand as it lay limp and curled on the flagstone floor.

She loved his hands, always had done. They were sensual and sure and dependable. Capable of both strength and tenderness, they seemed to encapsulate him.

_The thought of them not holding her, not touching her again… of never feeling them wind around her own fingers… or knowing the acceptance of intimacy and love as they stroked the hair back from her face. _

The paramedic was talking again, his face creased with lines of urgency. She didn't need a medical dictionary to understand the gist of what he said. They were moving him and it was serious, their need for haste was patently obvious. Something about intubation and having to scoop and run.

They were losing him.

_She was losing him. _

El's world spiralled and her self-control went tumbling. It wasn't fair, she'd only just found him. She found herself desperately wishing for Neal, but he was lost with problems of his own. There was no room for her to ride in the ambulance and Peter's condition was critical. She half-walked, half-ran alongside the gurney as the medics moved him out of the church.

It was dark now and the last of the sun had gone. The vast sky was clear and star-studded. She watched the fading lights of the ambulance as the tears slipped unchecked down her face.

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Eleven<strong>_

The light was so bright it burned through his lids and he turned his head slightly on the pillow, but the glare remained unrelenting and forced him to open his eyes. A white bed in a white room, there was a strip light above him on the ceiling. He pushed up and then wished he hadn't when the movement sent knives through his head. The next time he was a lot more cautious, moving slowly and with infinite care.

_A hospital, that was a given. _

He grimaced slightly at the discovery. There would be pain, awful food and long hours of boredom, before he could make an escape. Neal frowned and looked down at his arm for a clue, but an IV sat in situ where his watch should be. He switched his glance across to the window. The blinds were drawn but it was clearly dark outside.

The time-line was wrong; it was all fucked-up. As far as he was concerned, it was morning. He'd had a meeting with his self-appointed conscience at their usual spot in Riverside Park. _Peter_… his brow puckered as he tried to remember but his foggy mind refused to cooperate. All his memories were confused and disjointed and shrouded in veils of grey.

_There was something…_

A sudden stab of pain and a feeling of complete desolation. He tried hard to hold onto the fragment before it twisted fluidly away. Too late, he was clutching at nothing. The thought had vanished in a tantalising second. He was left with a lingering frustration and a sense of growing unease.

He sighed, and reaching up warily, ran his fingertips along the line of sutures which wove a lengthy path across his scalp. _Not good, this was so not good._ He'd been hurt and perhaps pretty badly. Judging by the length and depth of the wound, this was more than just a bump on the head.

A head injury was the last thing he wanted. Especially one which robbed him of his memories. Head injuries made people ramble – made them say things they might later regret. His mouth dried at the sudden implication and his gut clenched in quick consternation. He could have spilled the beans inadvertedly. _Had he let the cat out of the bag?_

It might explain why they'd left him alone. Maybe Peter was too pissed off with him. There was no one sitting vigil at his bedside, and no Elizabeth to soothe his fevered brow.

_Cat… _

Neal groaned, there it was again, the merest wisp of a memory. He almost smiled at the incongruous picture of a leopard in the branches of a tree. He hadn't been on safari and he didn't like zoo's, so where the hell had the image come from? As far as he knew there were no escaped leopards currently resident in Riverside Park.

He _had_ to know what had happened – finding out was his number one priority. Him and Moz, their plans could be in jeopardy if he'd made any kind of mistake. If it wasn't for the tubes and the monitors he would be planning a speedy exit. The only trouble was, talking of felines, he felt dizzy and weak as a cat. The slightest movement made the room lurch drunkenly so escaping was a definite no-no. Neal waited for the world to stop swaying and resigned himself to staying in bed.

_Something was wrong._

He just knew it. The impression grew stronger and stronger. He had a sense of impending menace which simply refused to quit. He was honest enough to acknowledge it all revolved around Peter. If everything was hunky-dory then the man would be here at his side. He felt worse than a piece of road kill but he couldn't stop his mind from racing. _The game was up and Peter had found out the truth._ The whole charade and their relationship was over. Neal looked across to the door in dismay. It was why they had left him alone.

_Could it be Peter had attacked him? _

He dismissed the thought at once, a trifle guiltily. There was no doubt the man would be angry, but petty spite was alien to him. The law and nothing but the law, it was everything to Agent Vanilla, the single rule which kept the planets revolving and the principle which governed his life. It was something_ he_ usually scoffed at, but for once, he wasn't being derisive. Neal realised with a sudden clench of pain, that this time, it made him feel sad.

It must be nice to be so straightforward and live ones life with a certain sense of symmetry. No wavering boundary lines to step over or shades of grey to confuse him. To appreciate a painting or a fine work of art without a burning desire to take it home. Peter Burke was so sure of right and wrong, god, it must help him sleep well at night.

_Easy, right?_

Pretty easy for some folk, but not for him, the _great _Neal Caffrey.

_Since when was he so damned conflicted?_ For some seconds, he lay there and wondered. Him and Moz, they had the world at their fingertips, billionaires for the rest of their lives. _Billionaires with travel restrictions_ - there was a time when he'd thought it was worth it. Working with Peter was transitory – expedient – and quite simply an escape from his cell. Instead, he'd ended up way too involved with the people, the work and the city, making ties and forging relationships with the folks he now thought of as family.

_Family, _the word was a double-edged sword, and one which felt really uncomfortable. In his experience, the meaning was spurious and families didn't always play nice.

There were voices on the other side of the door. He lay back and figured out how to handle things. Playing possum seemed a much better prospect than facing the music just yet. With any luck he would find out what happened and come up with some kind of strategy. In-spite of everything, Peter might want to help him. When it cut to the chase, they _were_ friends.

Closing his eyes, he evened out his breathing and tried to look pale and interesting. If his headache was anything to go by, it shouldn't prove all that hard. Just in time, he barely had a second to relax and let his head fall sideways on the pillow. The door opened with a sudden movement of air and then somebody entered the room.

_Not Peter._

He knew the man's quiet tread.

Two men but definitely not Peter.

It was back again, the horrible sense of unease, flooding through him with a mighty vengeance. He could learn to cope if Peter was angry, but right now, he wanted him here. What if the cargo had been the last straw and Peter had reached the end of his tether? Maybe he was simply done with the lies and the feelings of hurt and betrayal?

_Betrayal._

Where the hell had that come from?

For the first time he accepted its veracity. If he ran he was betraying Peter, flinging everything back in his face. Not just Peter, there was also Elizabeth. She had treated him with nothing but kindness. She had opened her heart and home to him when she could easily have pushed him aside. And she should have done – he wouldn't have blamed her. He was the slippery and artful Neal Caffrey. The man who'd robbed her of time with her husband for most of their married life.

Not just the Burkes, there was Peter's team, to say nothing of June and Sara. Since when had his life become such a mess… too many people were going to get hurt. It was easy to blame it on Mozzie for stealing the loot in the first place, but persuading him had been pretty easy, he'd been seduced by the scale of the prize. It was a miracle haul – a chance in a million - the type of heist dreams were made of. Pulling off such a scam was euphoric and old habits were hard to break.

Peter should know that – the man should realise. It had something to do with the leopard. There it was again, a splinter of memory, a sharp tug at the fringe of his mind. Yet again it was gone in an instant and he almost cried out in frustration. He had a strong sense the cat was laughing at him, mocking him with those all-seeing eyes.

"Any change?"

"Not so far," Reese Hughes was speaking and he sounded distinctly unhappy. "The doctors confirmed there's no bleed in his brain and talked about dissociative amnesia. Apparently there's some kind of discontinuity between his recollection of events before and after the shooting. He could wake with his memory completely intact up until his meeting with Peter - "

"Or only recall events after the fact and forget all about the cargo?"

"That seems to be about the size of it, or at least according to the doctors. In their opinion he couldn't deal with the trauma and simply blocked everything out."

"And physically?"

"Exhaustion and severe concussion, his brain was pretty badly bruised and shaken. They're pleased with the results of the CT scan, but he could be out a while yet."

Neal lay still and listened intently. The conversation was hardly reassuring. If he'd been wired up to a monitor his racing heart would have triggered the alarms. Reese Hughes was a familiar adversary but the other man was a stranger, his voice soft and imperceptibly accented with an underlying hint of authority. There was something, a certain quality about him, which made Neal instinctively wary. The man exuded strength and intelligence even though Neal could not see his face.

A shooting – _someone had shot him_ – the thought was quite frankly terrifying. He was lying here virtually helpless with a bullet wound carved in his head.

Unexpectedly, the second man laughed. "So in effect, we're back where we started. We don't know for sure he has the cargo, but we're confident he knows where it is. There's something about your Mister Caffrey… shall we say a certain durability. In the right hands, he could be very dangerous. Did you know I offered him a job?"

"He isn't going anywhere, Zahavi, and he most certainly isn't _my _Mister Caffrey. The man's still a convicted felon and until he's finished serving his sentence, there's no question, he does his time here. As for the cargo - "

"Ah yes, the cargo. We're still convinced of its existence but this episode has been a success for us. Anton Schiller was a dangerous man and a very sharp thorn in our side. Odessa's east coast operation is in disarray and it will take them a great deal of time, if not years, to regroup to anything like their previous operation. There are some very nervous players in Washington right now trying hard to keep their heads beneath the radar."

"Writing off Schiller might prove premature," Hughes sounded pissed. "The man still has a measure of influence. It might suit those friends of his in Washington to pull some strings and get him out of this mess."

"Schiller's not the only one with influence. There's a rumour spreading around certain Jihadist groups that he _has_ done a deal with Washington and betrayed Linzer's Middle Eastern contacts in a crude attempt to get off the hook. These groups think poorly of failure and can be even more intolerant of betrayal. They'll sink their fangs into the hand that feeds them and their poison has a very long reach."

Hughes' voice was heavy with irony. "And of course, Mossad has nothing to do with spreading these rumours?"

"Nothing can be traced back to us."

"What about Odessa, for all we know, they're still after the cargo. I'm glad this has been a success for you, but the whole thing has cost _us _dear."

"Schiller's love of art is well known – as was his obsession with the cargo. Perhaps it became too much for him and he wanted some of it for himself. Such a shame he was so easily duped. The whole thing was a wild goose chase. Peter Burke didn't lie to them. The loot was destroyed all along. Odessa does not stomach fools gladly and someone will have to pay for their discomfiture. Anton Schiller has become an embarrassment and one they would rather forget."

"Neat," Hughes was sarcastic. "So as far as they're concerned that's an end to it. Either they or the Jihadis assassinate Schiller and they all crawl back under their rocks."

"Unsavoury, I'm forced to agree with you, but it does ensure the safety of your operatives. Odessa has far more pressing concerns than to continue with something it now views as a wild goose chase."

"What about Mossad?" Hughes voice was soft. "Something tells me you still think it's out there."

Neal waited for the stranger's response. An awful lot hinged on his answer. To say the conversation was a revelation was something of a mild understatement. He was obviously in a world of trouble and things were about to get worse. The Israeli secret service was after him and that was hardly a good thing. More ominously, so was Odessa, a group of Nazis marching straight out of his nightmares. An organisation so shrouded in shadow it was hard to believe they might exist.

_Odessa_… the name sparked a memory and his starving brain fought to hold onto it, a strong feeling of guilt and resentment and Peter Burke's angry face. The sensation of sunlight warm on his skin and a ripple of leaves tracing patterns. A brief shift and then a flicker of danger as he saw the man under the trees.

"It's out there," Zahavi spoke again with some conviction. "And we'll be keeping a close eye on the market. It's worth knowing we're not the only ones, at least according to our agents in Moscow. The Russian mob has been putting out feelers ever since the first rumours began."

"And Caffrey?

Neal tensed and could swear he heard a smile edge back into Zahavi's voice. "I confess I rather like Mister Caffrey. The next few months should prove very interesting. I'm hoping my faith will not be misplaced. In the end, he _will_ do the right thing."

"You sound just like Burke," Hughes replied and there was exasperation and something else rather harder to place in his voice. "He's been banging a similar drum ever since Caffrey became his CI."

"You don't share his optimism?"

"The two of you might share faith in Caffrey but _I_ put my faith in Peter. The old saying kind of sticks in my mind – _a leopard never changes his spots."_

Neal almost leapt a foot off the bed – there it was again, the godamned leopard. _Something was happening_; his whole body was trembling as he eavesdropped on the two men's conversation. If they looked hard at him now the game would be up and they would see he was awake and alert. His head ached with a new ferocity and his face was covered in sweat.

The man by the trees – there was a man by the trees – and _Peter_… Peter was running. A scream of tyres and then a sickening thud as he watched Peter spin through the air.

_He was up on his feet, heart hammering in fear, and terrified he wouldn't be fast enough. Feet pounding across the concrete and then a burst of white fire in his head…_

_They had shot him and mown down Peter. _

With hindsight, he guessed _they_ were Odessa. A group of Nazis in pursuit of the cargo had seized his friend and left him for dead. It was ironic how he'd fought for his memories, and in his arrogance assumed they could not hurt him, but now they burned bright with a vengeance and remembering caused him such pain. It was shocking in lucidity and precision, crystal-clear like an eidetic memory, every facet and nuance of the morning rushing back in a torrent of detail.

He recalled the warmth of the sun on his back and the lemon-tipped glint on the river, his feelings of guilt and resentment, but most of all, he remembered his rage. _Anger at Moz, at the world, at himself… but above all, anger at Peter. _The man had wormed his way into his psyche and laid his emotions bare.

Peter had really pissed him off by bringing up the U-boat's bloody history and accusing him of having no regard for the original owners of the treasure; whereas in truth, the cargo's provenance_ had_ occurred to him and sparked a deep sense of misgiving. People had died – _he wasn't a monster_ – but it had all happened too many years ago. The last thing he needed was some self-righteous crap when he was trying to keep his head above water. Dealing with the present was hard enough - let alone trying to cope with the past.

He'd been balancing Peter and juggling Moz like some kind of circus performer. Trying to maintain a smile for the public and keep all his balls in the air. His nerves had been starting to fray with the strain and some kind of slip was inevitable. The performance would end in disaster and the balls tumble down at his feet.

And now Peter… dear god, there was _Peter…_

"Ah, Agent Burke - " Zahavi was speaking again and this time his voice sounded sombre. "I saw Elizabeth earlier, but there wasn't much she could tell me. My flight leaves for Washington in the morning and I was hoping he'd be out of danger."

Hughes sighed. "There's no change – he's critical but stable. You know they took him back to the OR last night to drain some more blood off his heart."

"It's admirable he made it as far as he did. It was a smart trick he used in the cellar."

"When I think what those bastards did to him - "

"It takes a brave man to stand up to them. To have the courage and strength to fight back. _And talking of courage_," Zahavi moved away from the window and walked across to the side of Neal's bed. "That leopard we were talking of earlier, don't be so sure he can't change his spots. He might surprise you and turn into a lion."

It was over. There was no more time for games and the charade had shattered around him. Neal's heart was nearly bursting with panic. Maybe Zahavi had known all along. He opened his eyes and looked directly at the man and the hawkish face seemed strangely familiar. He surmised they'd been working together in the void between the shooting and now.

Hughes was incensed, "how much did you hear?"

Neal swallowed hard and ignored him. He struggled up on the pile of pillows and turned to the Israeli instead.

"Please tell me what happened to Peter? Don't lie to me, I need to know the truth."

* * *

><p>It was so sterile and white and cool in here, like a spaceship or some high-tech laboratory. She hated the banks of equipment and the overriding feeling of quiet. <em>Just a feeling<em> – there was noise all around her - the clicks and whirls of the breathing machinery. They merely served as a constant reminder that her husband still fought for his life.

_Like he had down in that cellar. _

His suffering had been made horribly clear to her. The images were cruel and relentless now more details had come to light. They had beaten and tortured him, broken his bones, and the thought of his misery haunted her. If they'd hurt him so thoroughly physically, then what the hell had they done to his mind?

A sudden rush of tears pricked her eyes. She might never find out the answer. Peter's life still hung in the balance. There was a soul-tearing chance he could die.

She'd been numb and utterly terrified last night when the machines had started flashing a warning. The doctors had rushed him to theatre to drain a build-up of blood from his heart. Cardiac something or other that sounded like tapanade. Or perhaps that was just the cook in her - the emergency had been nothing like olive paste. It was_ tamponade…_ she recalled the actual word, a result of all the damage to his ribs.

He'd come through again, like he had in the church, beating the odds with his customary doggedness. El sighed and lifted his casted hand to her lips. Never had she felt more selfish. It was the reason she needed to stay by his side – she knew he would keep fighting for her.

She was an agent's wife – she had thought about this – but it was nothing like she'd imagined. There was no sense of overriding dignity, just a horrible egotistical terror. It was Peter… her Peter who lay white and still with a plastic tube controlling his breathing. It was wrong and self-centred and shallow to make this all about her. _Her_ needs, _her_ wants, her life without him, a dark void yawned open in front of her. She was poised on the edge of a nightmare and if he left she might just topple in.

Her muscles were trembling slightly and she was glad of her cashmere sweater. She was chilled right through to her marrow but it had nothing to do with the room. The coldness ran deep inside her. It was pitiless and cruelly implacable. She'd been floating along in a fool's paradise, wilfully oblivious to this brand of pain.

She held his hand and studied him closely. Never had he seemed so defenceless. His eyelids were opaque and transparent, the long lashes curved against his cheeks. The evidence was shocking and brutal, each bruise an uncompromising statement. The shattered cheekbone misshapen and swollen as it merged with his poor broken nose. Her husband, so fine-featured and handsome, was completely battered and broken. His skin black and blue with contusions and scars as he lay pale and still on the bed.

The real damage was on the inside, of course, but it didn't make the beating less appalling. A large tear dripped off the end of her face and fell onto the white cotton sheet.

"_Please, hon…" _

The precious endearment seemed to catch in her throat and she really hoped he could hear her. She longed for a reaction, just a flicker, anything to help release some of her fear.

There was nothing – no response to her words or touch – no indication he could feel or perceive her presence in any way, shape or form. The machines kept pumping air into his lungs as though he was already dead.

_Not dead…_ she froze at the treacherous thought which had crept in under the barrier. Something she could hardly acknowledge, a reality filled with darkness and pain.

_He wouldn't leave her_

_He almost had. _

There were no guarantees he would make it. The doctors looked at her gravely and he was still on the critical list.

"Oh, Peter."

It didn't matter how courageous or stubborn he was, the thought struck her like a revelation. It wasn't about courage or the will to live or a straight choice between life and death. It was unfair and unrealistic to beg him to hold on for her sake. Sometimes the mountain was too high to climb and there was basically no choice in the matter. Even Peter – as good and brave as he was – those qualities didn't make him immortal. She had to face up to the fact he might die and leave her to fend for herself.

For the first time since she'd known he was missing, El felt something give way inside her. All the fear and despair seemed to force its way out as a dam cracked and burst in her chest. She was strong – she'd always tried to stay strong – to be calm and composed and unruffled, but now the wrenching sobs threatened to choke her as she shook with a silent dread.

"El?"

She caught her breath hurriedly and looked slowly around at Neal. His voice was familiar but different. The nuances were slightly defensive again and she knew at once something had changed.

"You're back?"

The deeper meaning was patently clear and he didn't pretend to misunderstand her. He wondered what had passed between them when he was lost and trapped in the void. Neal regarded her a trifle uncertainly and a look of pain creased his forehead. His problems seemed small and inadequate compared to the man in the bed.

"Yeah, I'm back and I guess I remember. At least everything as far as the shooting and the point they took Peter away."

"You shouldn't be here," she took in his pale features and hospital gown. "Everyone's been worried about you."

He shook his head, and she thought she saw a quick flash of shame in his eyes. "They should save their concern for Peter. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

El tried to smile as the tears welled again, and this time she didn't try to stop them. Swallowing back a sob of sudden relief, she reached out and caught hold of his hand.

"I'm really glad you came."

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Twelve<strong>_

In his dreams he was back in the cellar in a nightmare of endless torment, locked away in a place of shadows from which he could never escape. There were arms on him, ruthless, restraining, their fists and their feet thudding into him, and someone else kneeling with their hands around his throat, pushing down on his muscles and joints.

He fought back, body screaming in agony, even though his exertions were futile. They laughed at him, mocking his suffering, every second a relentless ordeal.

_No way out, there was no way out._

He was trapped in a cycle of hopelessness. Lost in a world of darkness and fear and a maelstrom of physical pain. _Not just physical_ – he was scared and alone, at the whim of their sadistic cruelty. He fought hard to retain his sanity and stand firm against the whispers in his head. _They had hurt him and they were going to hurt El._ There was nothing he could do to stop them. His life had shattered into fragments of glass and they'd told him Neal was dead.

In-spite of the pain and brutality it was Anton Schiller who worried him. The man was an expert at mind-games and used them to torture his victims. He was always there, smooth and fastidious, to all appearances concerned and refined. _It was a lie._ The man was a monster. He was capable of unimaginable horrors. Like the evil he admired so devoutly and was determined to serve and uphold.

_Schiller_… the man had crept under his skin and hooked his claws into his psyche. As though it gave him a perverse kind of pleasure to keep and maintain such a grip. The strange link between torturer and victim, all Schiller's talk of a symbiotic relationship; perhaps there was a horrible truth in it and he would never be free of the man.

He was here again, smiling down at him, eyes amused and faintly derisive. Studying him like some poor captured specimen or a butterfly held down by a pin. Peter panicked and twisted away from him, body tensing as he strained all his sinews. Schiller laughed and shook his head scornfully. It was happening all over again.

Nowhere to go, he was tied to the chair, and the cellar walls contracted around him. He fought hard, his rasping lungs struggling for breath, in a desperate attempt to escape. _Couldn't breathe… his chest was paralysed_… maybe this time he was really dying. He surged upwards, gasping and choking in a last-ditch endeavour for air.

"_Please don't fight them." _

It was El's voice imploring him softly, and she sounded distressed, almost frantic. He sank back down in sudden defeat. It was over, he_ really_ was dead.

There were white lights and a rush of sensation, the outlines of figures around him. It was true then, the hackneyed old stories were true – so why was he still in such pain?

"Peter, please – they're trying to take out the tube. Squeeze my hand if you can hear what I'm saying? Just relax and try and breathe for me, sweetheart. I'm right here and everything's okay."

Dear god, his Elizabeth sounded so sad, he wanted to reach out and comfort her. A swathe of hair and the soft scent of sandalwood, and then the wetness of tears on his face. _So close,_ she was all around him. The sense of her seemed to envelope him. She was love and warmth and safety. He leaned closer and sighed out her name.

"_El."_

"Hon?"

He heard the catch in her throat and he hated it. He would do anything… _anything_ to console her. There was no way on earth he could leave her like this, at the mercy of a man like Anton Schiller. _Had to fight, had to be there for her._ Peter knew he had to make more effort. It was his job to protect her and save her from harm. He tried harder and opened his eyes.

She was only inches away from him, her face tragic and infinitely beautiful, her expression became hesitant and searching, and then quite suddenly incandescent with joy.

_Not dead. _

It all came tumbling back to him, his Neal Caffrey-esque escape from the cellar, his little trick with the ancient light-switch and then an agonising crawl up the stairs.

_Not dead._

There was a chill of damp in the air and the rich musty fragrance of frankincense, and shafts of light through a stained glass window bathing everything a deep ruby red. _The door was locked and he wasn't going anywhere… thank god he'd stolen the cell phone._ He vaguely recalled a conversation with Jones and then a terrible pain in his chest.

They had come but he must have been out of it. He was lucky they'd arrived before Schiller. He'd fought so hard to stay on top of his game, but his memories were disjointed at best.

_Not dead._

He guessed he'd come pretty close to it. There'd been a moment when he'd thought he was dying. A gut feeling something was disastrously wrong and the sure knowledge something had changed. There was another time – after drinking the Armagnac – when a shadow had fallen across him. Neal had saved him but Peter was certain he'd been brushed by the cold hand of death.

"Peter?"

El was calling him gently and he realised his eyes had slipped closed again. He did as he was told and looked up at his wife. She was trembling as her hand cupped his cheek.

"There you are," she sounded softer then he'd ever known. "About time…" she faltered and bent down to kiss him on the mouth. "I'm so sorry about the waterworks, god, I promised myself I wouldn't cry."

"El?"

He tried saying her name again, his voice cracking on the single syllable. His chest burned with the effort of drawing in air and it felt like his throat had been cut. _There was something_… his brows snapped together. A chance she might still be in danger. _Had to warn her,_ he had tell her, but he could barely form the words in his head.

"Schiller - "

She read his mind. "Lie still, hon, there's no need to worry. I'm quite safe and it's all taken care of. Anton Schiller was killed on his way to arraignment. He can't hurt either one of us again."

_Schiller was dead._ Peter found he was shivering, suddenly assaulted by a scatter of images, a lack of hope and the shock of cold water, a confusion of darkness and pain. _What they'd done to him_… the methods of hurting him… how they'd tried to dismantle his psyche. He had to fight, find a way to get over it without shattering or losing his sanity.

He was all the _P's_ – or so El insisted - her practical, pragmatic Peter, problem-solving and sometimes pedantic, but with an outsized dose of passion on the side. Right now, he could use that analogy, he was shaky and strangely fragmented. Something felt broken inside him, as though it wasn't just his bones they had smashed.

Talking of which, he held on tight to El's hand and tried to take stock of his surroundings. He was in hospital – that much he was sure of. They must have pulled him out after the phone call. There were some pretty big holes in his memory and the last thing he recalled was his escape. They had him in some kind of cubicle, encircled by banks of equipment. He was attached to all kinds of monitors and an IV stood guard by the bed. At various intervals during the day and night, quiet-footed men and women came in and out of the room to talk to El and check his condition. Sometimes they spoke to him, smiling encouragingly, but all he truly wanted was his wife.

Even though it was really unfair, he would fret whenever she left him. His pain levels and restlessness rocketing until she was back at his side. She was safe – _he was safe_ – and Schiller was dead. He repeated the words like a mantra, simply doing so kept his mind focused and helped exorcise some of the demons. Most of the time he was heavily sedated, either that or dosed up with morphine. It hurt like hell each time they moved him and the pain in his chest was intense.

Whenever he woke, she was always there, voice soothing, her hands soft and gentle. Her lovely smile was just as generous as ever, but it couldn't hide the sorrow in her eyes.

He'd done this to her and he hated it.

He'd failed to keep his side of the bargain.

It wasn't much, after all, that she asked of him, to come home at the end of the day. He woke up again with a jump of alarm and realised he'd called out her name.

"Hey you, Mister sleepy-head," she put down her book face-down on the night-stand and reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm and infinitely comforting as they laced tightly through his. "You need anything, hon?"

He blinked once or twice and took a quick look around. Right now, it seemed to be dark outside. Nearly midnight according to the clock on the wall, and he wondered how long he'd been lying here. His gut instinct told him quite a few days but his mind had lost all track of time. Every instant he woke-up, he went through it again, and found some more missing pieces of the puzzle. He wasn't sure if he'd ever remember it all and find a way through the fog in his head.

He hurt – he guessed that was a given – every breath an unpleasant experience. His chest felt like broken china that had been glued back together again. It was not surprising, under the circumstances. He could definitely recall the beatings. Smell their sweat, hear the sound of their voices, feel the shape of their fists on his skin.

"Peter?"

He was jolted back to the present. "How long?"

"Four days," she spoke quietly and levelly. "You've been sedated and on a ventilator for most of them, to help you breathe and ease the pain from your ribs."

He swallowed hard, "El, I'm so sorry - "

"_Stop,"_ she snatched her hand away. "Stop right there and don't you dare apologise. What Schiller did to you…. _you_ didn't choose any of this. It's not your fault the man was a monster."

He took a deep rasping breath and looked at her miserably. "But I knew, don't you see, a part of me_ knew_ the cargo was nothing but trouble. Call it instinct or some kind of premonition; I had a gut feeling something wasn't right."

"Oh, Peter," he could see she was shaking, eyes burning with a bright intensity. "Right now isn't the time or place, but if we're going to allocate blame then you would be last on my list. Anton Schiller was a Nazi and a murderer who threatened the people you care for. That last night we were together, I sensed you were concerned about me."

He made an effort to squeeze her fingers. "He said he was going to hurt you if Neal and I didn't hand him the cargo. The irony was I didn't know anything. I would have offered him the moon if I did."

"I know, sweetie," El leaned forward, her voice unstable and infinitely loving as she placed her cheek alongside his. "But there was nothing he really wanted; you were just a bargaining chip."

"He thought I was crooked – that I'd stolen the cargo." _Saying it out loud really bothered him_. "A little something to supplement my pension. He truly thought I was in it with Neal."

"Then the man was an idiot as well as a monster." El's response was splendidly indignant and everything and more he might have wanted, but he could tell by her sudden intake of breath the implication was not lost on her. She sighed softly. "Mossad, Odessa and the FBI… Is there anyone who actually _doesn't _believe Neal and Moz stole the wretched loot?"

"Mossad?"

"Oh, honey," El pulled back and smiled at him a trifle sadly. "Don't pretend you nothing about them. Things got pretty messed-up and complicated the whole time you were away. _Neal was_… Neal was pretty heavily involved, and it's down to him we got you out alive."

Peter lay back and thought about that. He was sensing a real story. He had a sudden uneasy conviction he was about to hear some things he wouldn't like. The morphine was wearing off again but he resisted the self-dosage button. Despite feeling unutterably weary, he steeled himself and opened his eyes.

"Tell me?"

"Not now, not _yet._ You're not up to it - "

"El, _please_… tell me what happened to Neal?"

But as usual, she was right and he was drifting, losing the tussle with his errant body. A wave of sheer exhaustion flooded over him. There was nothing he could do to stay awake. He was so tired, just so damned tired all the time, and falling in and out of sleep like a child.

"Later."

She reached across for the morphine pump and pressed her thumb down on the button. Her lips were soft and warm against his forehead as the opiate whooshed into his vein.

* * *

><p>It was just him and El for sometime after that and the hours seemed to blur into nothingness. He spent his time floating in and out of consciousness on a morphine-induced cloud of sleep. When he woke, there was the torture of physio and all the pain induced by simple movement. He couldn't bear the thought of food because his abdomen ached and he'd lost all desire to eat. Even the little things seemed to exhaust him and deplete his reserves of strength.<p>

Elizabeth was endlessly patient and Peter wished he could be more compliant, but he was too weak to reassure her completely and banish the fear from her eyes.

_Not surprising._

He knew the whole of it now. She had filled him in on the story. About Schiller, the bomb and the forgery… and the part Neal had played in his rescue. His ordeal was a piece of the puzzle, merely a part of a bigger picture. So much had gone on behind the scenes in an effort to help save his life.

It could have easily turned into a tragedy, could have ended in total disaster. _Neal…_ both Neal and Elizabeth… had taken risks he would never have sanctioned. The old church had been wired with enough high explosive to reduce it to a pile of rubble. Schiller would have sent Neal to free him and then blown both of them into oblivion. With no proof or tangible evidence and very little forensic data, it would be hard to gain a conviction and Odessa would be home and dry. Peter had to give Schiller some credit. The man planned to leave no loose ends.

_And El, his brave and wonderful El…_

The thought of her in the church gave him nightmares. She'd risked so much, gone through so many traumas, to battle her way back to his side. Schiller's goons had done a real number on him and he hated to think what he'd looked like. His heart broke at the thought of her witnessing that - of her watching him fight for his life.

Peter sighed and turned restlessly on the pillow. He was not a very good patient. The doctors had told him it would be several more weeks before he could consider going home again. He missed his life, he missed his dog, he missed normal – but mostly he missed being with his wife.

"Peter?"

Neal entered the room on cat-like feet, so quietly Peter almost didn't hear him. He paused for a second on the threshold and then came and stood by the bed.

"You're thinner," Peter studied him critically and the statement sounded sharper than intended. There were so many other things he wanted to say… so much that _should_ have been said.

"_I'm_ thinner?" Neal's mouth twisted wryly. "Have you seen yourself lately?"

Peter shrugged and then winced and regretted it. "All right, _touché,_ I guess."

"It's all your wife ever talks about – her long-term plan to fatten us up again."

"Long-term, huh?" Peter countered slowly. "Is there going to be a long-term, Neal?"

Neal's smile didn't waver for a moment but he took a few seconds to answer. "According to Elizabeth, there will be, she plans on taking sole charge of your diet."

Peter couldn't help sighing a little. The old armour was apparently in place again. After Schiller, after everything they'd been through, he'd wondered if things might have changed.

Shifting against the pillows, he tried to sit up a bit straighter. His arm slipped and he listed awkwardly, his broken ribs wrenching in agony. _Dear god – the pain was unbearable,_ Peter swallowed back a sudden rush of nausea. His vision greyed as the room swung around him and he crumpled against the bed.

_Strong arms supporting him… holding him… and moving him back against pillows._ He reached out and someone grasped hold of his hand until the pain began to ease away.

"Are you okay?" Neal was taut with anxiety and the old vulnerability was back again. The concern in his eyes was conspicuous, almost naked with sheer intensity. "Peter, come on, man, can you answer me?" He helped ease him down very gently. "Just hang on and I'll go call the nurse."

"No," Peter rasped and after several more breaths eventually regained his voice. "Over there, the morphine pump."

"Here you are," Neal placed it carefully into his hand and stood hovering as he pressed the button. "Are you sure you don't want me to go fetch some help - how long does that stuff take to work?"

"_No help,"_ he gasped, wrapping an arm around his chest. He was sick to death of bothering the nurses. Furthermore, if they came in and took over, it would give Neal an excuse to leave.

He swallowed his pride and clung onto Neal's hand until his heart rate began to slow down again. His ragged breathing started to settle as the familiar haze spread through his veins. He inhaled and this time it was easier. The morphine had started working. Peter nodded at Neal and let go of his hand as his muscles began to relax.

"Thanks," he tried to keep things light. "They assure me it _will_ get better."

"I'm pretty sure it can't get much worse," Neal made an effort to reply in kind but he still looked rather pale and unsteady. He glanced sideways across to the doorway as if he would like to escape. "Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea…"

"_No,"_ Peter pre-empted his words. "Not this time, you don't get to do this. Not now, after everything that's happened. No avoidance or evasive tactics. I have some things I want to say."

"There's no need," Neal's voice was barely a whisper. "Don't you think I've already been over this a million or so times? That morning when we met in Riverside Park you tried to warn me about Odessa. I should have listened, should have taken you seriously…"

"Neal - "

"No, Peter, please let me speak. I hate what those bastards did to you and El, and the way they made you both suffer. If I could take it back, if only I could change things – I swear to god I'd do _anything_."

Peter regarded him silently, the words were heartfelt, but there was still no admission. Neal's apology was absolutely genuine and maybe that was the saddest thing.

He sighed. "Seems to me you already did. I heard what you went through to save me. You risked your life, took one hell of chance… you could easily have wound up dead."

"You would have done the same for me."

"But to all intents and purposes, you didn't even know who I was."

"I knew enough, _or so they tell me,"_ Neal glanced down at his shoes with a trace of embarassment, "and what I didn't know soon became clear to me. There were a lot of people singing your praises, but I hear most of it was down to your wife."

"It usually is," Peter's tone softened. "I have so much to make up to her."

"You can always play the wounded soldier card."

"Talking of which," Peter studied him carefully. "Any nasty repercussions from the gunshot wound? I hear your brains were seriously scrambled. All your marbles and memories intact?"

Neal met his gaze and the veneer was back in all of its former glory. The practised smile was wide and innocent. He was as watchful and wary as a cat.

"I have no memories after the shooting until I woke the last time in the hospital. All those heroics and I can't even remember them…" he shook his head a trifle mockingly. "But I assure you all my marbles are intact."

"I don't doubt it."

He was suddenly weary. Sick and tired of the game they were playing. For a while there – for a brief shining moment, they'd seemed on the verge of a breakthrough. Neal had played a major role in his rescue and for that he was eternally grateful. He had behaved like a regular hero – but most of all, he had acted like a friend.

_Friends didn't lie to one another. _

_They didn't risk losing each other. _

God, he'd hoped things were going to be different, but they were stuck in the same holding pattern. Skating around one another like dancers with their blades cutting into thin ice. Neal was leaving – pulling away from him – both literally and figuratively. The fissures were forming and widening as the ice cracked under their feet. It was splintering into a tissue of lies as the black water yawned beneath them, and in-spite of his best intentions, he couldn't save Neal from falling in.

He opened his eyes with a sudden jerk and realised he must have been drifting. Neal had probably assumed he'd fallen asleep and was already on his way out.

"Wait - " _god, he sounded desperate, but the word was somehow ripped out of him. _It was important – _make that crucial_ – to be brutally frank and not disguise what he wanted to say. "Is it worth it - is winning worth _so_ much to you? Can you risk losing everything you've worked for? A home here, a real chance at freedom… all the people who call you their friend?"

For a second Neal froze and stood perfectly still with his back turned away from Peter. He stepped out of the room without answering and closed the door quietly behind him.

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Thirteen<strong>_

He discharged himself _Against Medical Advice_ and walked several miles in the rain back to his apartment. By the time Neal turned the key in the lock he was pretty near soaking wet. He didn't give a damn – in-fact he revelled in it, as though the soaking was some kind of atonement. It was a penance for keeping secrets from Peter and his part in the theft of the loot.

There were lies and more lies – _lies upon lies_ – he was enmeshed in them, backed into a corner. Even today, they'd tripped out so easily when Peter had asked about his injuries. The barriers had all slammed back into place and he'd found himself lying again.

_No memories after the shooting until waking up in the hospital…_

Things might be simpler if that was true, but in reality he was starting to remember. Little sound-bites and various rogue images which kept popping into his head. Elizabeth talking to him gently as she tried to explain what was happening. Her compassion and genuine sadness as she'd held his hand and told him about Kate. _God, __Elizabeth__…_ his feelings of guilt reared again, _if there was anyone who didn't deserve this_. She'd been so generous with her time and sympathy even though she was suffering herself.

_Kate…_

His heart clenched in sudden agony and he paused and blinked away a rush of tears. She was always there, pale-skinned and beautiful, standing just beyond the reach of his dreams. Her eyes were large and sloping like almonds as she gazed at him and shook her head reproachfully, then she would turn in-spite of his entreaties, her image fading as she walked into the mist. _Did she blame him for her death - had he failed her?_ The questions would always haunt him. He was consumed by an awful conviction he had let her down in some way.

_Enough_. He clenched hold of his key and took a deep breath; he really did_ not_ want to go there. The latent pain lay just beneath the surface. If he allowed it to emerge and get stronger, there was a chance it might engulf him again.

And Schiller – he recalled Anton Schiller, of course, but there was one thing he'd said in particular. _'A man like you wouldn't give up a fortune in art just to save Peter Burke's life?'_

_A man like you_… there it was again. It was strange how Schiller's words kept coming back to him. Round and round like a needle stuck in a groove on an endless repeat in his head. It had been easy enough to refute them during their violent encounter in the warehouse. He'd been innocent by process of ignorance even though it was no true defence. _The old adage about not knowing?_ God, what he wouldn't give to be back there. He wished he'd never heard of the damned cargo – now that really_ would _be bliss.

_Maybe the cargo was cursed after all? _

He was certainly beginning to believe it. It seemed destined to incite a trail of murder, so many lives had been lost in its name. He'd had a dream the other night in the hospital - he was opening the Nazi packing cases. When he'd eventually managed to undo the crates, they ran red with Peter's blood.

Shivering, Neal leaned his head against the door jamb and considered going into his apartment. Once he crossed over the threshold, he would be stepping back into his life. He'd been out of it, for a dreamlike moment in time, and caught up in a bizarre kind of interlude. All the lies and deceit stripped away from the bone in the exigency of saving Peter.

If Moz hadn't stolen the cargo then Odessa would not have come after them, and if they'd never discovered the U-boat, then _his_ life here would still be intact. But Moz had - _they had_ - the wretched U-boat was a fact, and now his future looked pretty shaky. Neal acknowledged he'd been brought to _point non plus. _In effect, there was no going back.

He was in too deep, right up to his neck, and right now he couldn't see a way out of it. In the end, however the cards fell, he would wind up hurting a friend. Him and Moz – they went back too many years – they had history and he owed Moz his loyalty. His relationship with Peter Burke was different and a damned sight harder to define.

Peter had been on the critical list and it had looked like he might not make it. His own response had been raw, almost visceral, as though his heart had been ripped from his chest. There was something – a far wider connection – a rare link which existed between them. It ran deeper than respect or even friendship, too profound to identify.

And yet he was going to betray him.

Walk away with the wretched cargo.

Turn his back on the friends who had supported him through this – tried to help him begin a new life.

Neal pushed against the door and it opened. The loft appeared just as he'd left it. The strong smell of linseed was hardly surprising in light of his resurgence of memory. His easel stood by the large picture window surrounded by paint tubes and equipment and a selection of discarded paintbrushes left to soak in an old coffee jar. His stomach clenched all over again. It hurt him to look and remember. The desperation and fear was as real and extreme, the anxiety and dread just as fresh.

Shrugging out of his rain-soaked jacket he made a point of switching all the lamps on. Once the room was infused with an amber glow he turned to the man waiting in the chair.

"I won't bother asking how you got in."

Rom Zahavi smiled briefly and his hawkish face seemed softened by the shadows. "The same way, I imagine, as you would. I came immediately they said you'd discharged yourself. There are some things I'd still like to say."

"Still think the leopard might change his spots?"

"Maybe, if he's given the right incentive. I came back from Washington to see Agent Burke, but your little escape forced my hand."

"Did you think I would run?" Neal was bitter. "Seems as though you're not the only one. Agent Burke shares your opinion, so better stand in line and join the queue."

"Do you want to run?"

Zahavi took the wind out of his sails and Neal paused and considered the question. He had a sudden uncomfortable image of the look on Peter Burke's face. _Peter…_ struggling in his hospital bed, in-spite of the pain it caused him, still trying to make him acknowledge the truth and admit to his part in all this.

He sat down and smiled derisively. "Always assuming I have the cargo, of course?"

Zahavi leaned forward. "Let's not beat around the bush. The noose is tightening and you're running out of choices. The Nazi loot has become a millstone around your neck and because of it Peter Burke almost died. You can run and give up your life here, whilst sacrificing any chance of freedom. Or you could confess to having the cargo and risk losing Burke all over again."

Neal spoke carefully. "Supposing you're right about any of this, I'm sensing another option?"

"The third option is that you leave with me now. You could be out of the country tonight."

"Just like that, out of the country?"

"In Jerusalem by breakfast time."

"You get me out in exchange for the cargo, and I'm guessing an arrangement with Mossad?"

"I'm an admirer of your talents, Mister Caffrey, the job offer I made you still stands. A new country, a new identity, and a lucrative and worthwhile career. Your special talents would be most appreciated and we always look after our friends. In time we could probably strike some kind of deal and smooth things out with your government. If we could get them to reconsider the charges against you, then who knows, you could return home again?"

There it was – rolled right in front of him – a big shiny golden apple. Except he wasn't a classical hero and his life was no ancient Greek myth. It was an out, most definitely a means of escape and from a highly unexpected corner. In a way it was almost funny, so why did he feel so sad?

Yet the offer was not without merit and he could tell Zahavi was genuine. It would be easy to succumb to temptation, dump all his troubles and call it a day. No obligations and no conflicts of interest, an end to sneaking around and torn loyalties. It would lift a lead weight off his shoulders and he might breathe more freely again.

_An easy way out_ – it was an easy way out, and leaving was very appealing. He was tired, his head injury still hurt him, and it would be simple to just walk away. A new life would mean an end to his dilemma. No more guilt or remorse on his conscience. No more feeling like the worse kind of betrayer every time he looked at Peter's face. Freedom always came at a price, and Neal was by no means stupid. There would be consequences and expectations, of course; it would be another form of gilded cage.

Once upon a time, he'd been to Israel – him and Kate in the guise of tourists. They'd combined a sight-seeing tour of the place with a reconnaissance of the Dead Sea Scrolls. There was a buyer, a wealthy Arab, who had offered a mouth-watering retrieval fee. It had been tempting enough to risk taking a look and seeing if it could be done. The country had been an unexpected delight but the Israelis had received some kind of tip-off. The security was raised to impossible heights and Neal put the job on hold. Discretion was the better part of valour but the trip hadn't been a total washout. They'd spent a luxurious week sunbathing by the Red Sea, scuba diving off the reefs around Eilat.

He sighed, it all seemed a lifetime ago, and he felt like a different person. A part of him wished he could go back in time, to be confident and carefree again.

"I liked Israel," he was seriously considering it. "A friend and I once spent some time there."

Zahavi chuckled appreciatively. "I recall that particular interlude. My people had you under surveillance. In-spite of your many talents, it didn't turn out the way you supposed."

Neal shrugged. "We had a great vacation and I promised we'd go back some day."

"Why not today? I have an air ticket waiting and an apartment in old town Jerusalem. There's even a job which might intrigue you – the restitution of a certain work of art."

For a brief second he was sorely tempted as both the job and the apartment were enticing. He had no doubts the work would be thrilling. It would also be dangerous and tough. Working for Mossad would be risky, he wasn't under any illusions. A life of covert operations and espionage was hardly a walk in the park.

A new beginning, a fresh start.

_What was it worth to him?_

Neal got up and walked over to the window. He stared out across the rooftops of the city. The grey skies looked down on the stone griffins which maintained their impassive watch. From here he saw the swerve of the river as it flowed out towards the Atlantic, the curved arc of light on a thousand panes of glass, and the green swathe of Central Park. If he left he would be burning his bridges. Losing more than just the city he loved.

"The Russians have word of the cargo," Zahavi spoke almost pensively. "There are rumours they might send someone after it. At least a third of the art on the U-boat was looted from Russian museums."

It was raining again, a sudden heavy downpour, the tracks of water streaming down the window. Neal closed his eyes briefly and pressed his aching head against the glass. It would be blazingly hot in Jerusalem now. The golden city would be bone-dry and arid. The bright sun would be shining on olive groves and dazzling off the Dome of the Rock.

"Our restitution department is very well equipped; you would have access to almost anything you wanted. Our operatives move in the finest of circles and travel all over the world."

Zahavi's words were like honey, both sweet and very beguiling. The old Neal would have jumped at the offer and said _'yes'_ without any regrets.

_The old Neal…_

He shook his head with self-mockery, and wondered at the distinction. Since when had he started to describe himself thus, or define his persona this way? At some point during this appalling debacle he had come to a terrifying realisation. He was no longer the carefully constructed man he'd spent so long trying to be. The alterations had crept upon him subtly; he'd fallen victim to their sleight of hand. The transformation might have been barely noticeable, but nonetheless, he _had _changed.

_Damn Peter Burke and his white hat mentality. _

It was easy to blame it on Peter. The man had a way of discomfiting him and making him feel like a heel. It was _that_ look – that straight-arrow look of his, coupled with honesty and sharp-eyed intelligence, the same look that made perps squirm uncomfortably and brought the best out of his team. Neal sighed, and shook his head slightly, he was still at a loss to explain it. No matter how he tried to stay sharp and detached, the man had wormed his way under his skin.

_Cowboy-up._

He could hear the god-awful words in his head, as though Peter was standing beside him. Neal considered the alternatives and stared out at the pouring rain. If he left, all his bridges would shoot up in flames, if he stayed, it would be temporary. Whatever he decided would destroy Peter's trust. There was no way of winning this game.

There was Moz and there was Peter and El… until recently there had also been Sara. Way too many folks with different expectations, and all with differing aspirations just for him. It was time to face up to the future alone. No more dissembling and no more evasion. All the roads ahead led down blind alleys. There was only one means of escape.

_Hobson's choice._

He had no choice at all.

Neal raised his head and looked at Zahavi. At long last, it was time to come clean.

* * *

><p>Peter gazed into the mirror and flinched at the face staring back at him. It was the first time he'd really studied himself and the reflection came as a shock. <em>Fractured jaw, broken nose, cracked right cheekbone, two black eyes and a shattered eye socket.<em> Hundreds of sutures to hold him together and repair a patchwork of cuts. His hands clenched on the porcelain washbasin. He resembled some kind of monster. The bruises were fading according to El, so god knows what he'd looked like before.

The doctors had been reassuring. He would need a small correction on his cheekbone. Maybe his nose and a little dental work – it was nothing that couldn't be fixed. It would take a few months for the swelling to go down and then time would restore his appearance. With some care and a whole lot of patience, his face would get back to normal again.

He closed his eyes – he wasn't a vain man – but neither was he totally stupid. He knew he was reasonably attractive, in a square-jawed and rugged sort of way. It was _his_ face and he'd kind of grown used to it, and most importantly, El seemed to like it. Peter shivered as the nightmares edged in on him. They seemed to hover on the borders of his memory. If the scars stayed as a constant reminder it would mean Schiller had won.

_Schiller was dead. _

He was dead and it was over.

The man would never hurt him again.

He hated this – hated his own frailty – and all the ghosts which delighted in haunting him. The feelings of loss and abandonment which even now refused to go away. Peter knew that it made no sense and he was being absurdly irrational. His people had fought for him fiercely, risked their lives and pulled out all the stops.

_His people_ – he wondered, did that include Neal?

It was crazy; the man had nearly died for him.

Neal was brave – Peter had never once questioned his nerve. He could be daring and boldly audacious. He had a reckless and almost childlike delight in pulling off outrageous stunts. _And yet…_ Peter frowned and considered the facts, and came to his own conclusions. There was always the underlying feeling it was part of a big cosmic game. Maybe some sort of mega-challenge, or a contest he delighted in winning. As though real-life was too boring, too humdrum, and hardly worthy of the great man himself.

Peter sighed, he was full of self doubts. He'd been feeling a lot like this, lately. Since the U-boat, Vincent Adler and Schiller, his whole world felt insecure and unsafe. El was right, Neal was hardly straightforward. He would never conform to some formula. Perhaps they'd all been too arrogant in assuming that he could change?

_Perhaps…_ and yet there was something. Neal's eyes told a different story. There'd been a look of desperation, of anguish, before he'd turned so abruptly away.

One last quick appraisal, and then he lowered his gaze. He hoped looking would eventually get easier. Meanwhile, despite all his injuries and scars, he needed to get out of here. He was of no use stuck in the hospital. Not to El, and in this case, not to Neal. There was something_… a really bad feeling_… and right now, he was totally powerless. They were hovering on the brink of tragedy and nearing the end of the road. Peter knew it in every single one of his bones. Neal had never been closer to running. If he didn't get out and do something… it would be too late and Neal would be gone.

He groaned and leaned on the IV pole. It didn't help he still felt about ninety. It was hard to believe he could do anything, let alone prevent someone from leaving. His ribs grated and hurt with every movement. He still found it tough to walk across the room.

_Had to be done._

Negotiating his way through the bathroom door was harder than he'd ever imagined. It didn't help he was still drugged up to the nines or that his left hand was imprisoned in a cast. He was just starting to feel a little bit smug when he lost his footing and it all went to hell.

Flailing wildly, he reached for the IV pole, but somehow it got wedged in the doorway. Peter swore as his ribs hitched in agony and his legs seemed to turn into mush. He fell in a tumbled graceless heap between his bed and the bathroom door.

The onslaught of pain was unbearable and he lay there shaking and sweating. In a strange way it was worse than the cellar which considering all the morphine was odd. He'd been so determined to fight them. To resist with every last drop of adrenalin. Defying Schiller had hardened his will in a dogged attempt to save El.

She was safe and that bastard Schiller was dead.

He supposed it should be '_all's well that ends well._'

And it was, he granted, _in theory_ – aside from Neal and all the demons in his head.

He lifted his leg and pushed back against the wall. There was no point trying to get up again. It was simply a matter of waiting until somebody came into the room. In a way it was kind of funny. Or it would be if he didn't feel so wretched. So much for the much-vaunted Peter Burke strength, well, he didn't feel very strong now.

Whoever found him was going to be mad. He was supposed to be on strict bed-rest. Peter knew he would be in deep trouble, and he only hoped it wouldn't be El.

The fall in itself was shocking enough but it served a more sobering purpose. It curtailed any plans for getting out of here, and put things into sharp perspective. His body was simply too broken. Peter realised he wasn't going anywhere. In a way he was still a prisoner and for a while there would be no escape.

_No escape…_

He was back in the cellar and Schiller was leering down at him. His eyes were glittering, black as coal, and he had a cruel smile on his face. He reached out to Peter and stroked his cheek, the touch light and strangely intimate. Then he tutted and shook his head at him. _"Did you really think you could escape?"_

Part of him knew it was only a dream, or a morphine-induced hallucination, but Schiller seemed horrifically lifelike and the cold rush of terror was real.

"Dead, _you're dead_," he spoke out loud.

Schiller laughed and regarded him quizzically. _"Not so long as you let me torment you. I'm only as dead as you make me – or as alive as you allow me to be." _

God help him, he was _sure_ it was a terrifying dream, but it was sharp with a peculiar clarity. Like blue sky on snow covered mountains, or the silver-edged light before a storm. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and fought hard to control his rapid breathing. He was filled with a sudden conviction this might be a fight to the death.

"_Good try, but I'm not planning on leaving,"_ Schiller bent down and whispered in his ear. _"The link between us can never be broken. There's really no point in you staying here."_

"There's no link," Peter tore out the words. "It broke when I crawled out of the cellar."

"_Don't be naïve, it can never be broken. Just accept it and come with me."_

A roar of blood in his head and more pain in his chest, and somehow it was down to Schiller. Peter grabbed at the fallen IV pole and moved violently to push him away.

"_You weren't supposed to get out of the cellar,"_ Schiller's voice was brutally insistent. _"By then, you were mine and I owned you. Your life was merely collateral. You must have known you would never escape."_

Peter was spinning out of control. It felt perilously like he was falling. Rationally, it couldn't possibly be happening. He was already slumped on the floor.

"Agent Burke!"

Voices calling and shouting instructions… _voices other than Anton Schiller's._ Hands on him, moving and lifting him, and a tearing feeling, sharp in his chest.

"Schiller - "

He must have spoken out loud, because El was there sounding frightened.

"He's dead – he can never hurt you again. Please, hon,_ I've_ got you. You're safe."

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, than you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Part Fourteen<strong>_

Neal paused by the waiting diplomatic limousine and stood at the edge of the sidewalk. The rain had stopped over an hour ago and the asphalt was shiny and black. This was it then, he really was leaving – the words had a horrible finality. He was about to embark upon a trip to the unknown. Too much had happened, there was no going back.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and discovered to his chagrin, he was shivering. A part of him was desperate to change his mind and he couldn't resist one last look at the house.

How ironic that of all the places in the world… of all the luxury apartments and penthouses, of all the opulent villas and five star hotels, it should be this place that had captured his heart.

He had changed; there was no getting away from it, and the journey ahead seemed almost daunting. Given the choice he would rather stay here and the sweet bird of freedom had fled.

_No regrets._

The stupid words were a lie and nearly always an oxymoron. Usually said with a hint of defiance when instead, the polar opposite was true. Not so long ago he would have loved this, all the cloak and dagger, drama and intrigue. Yet another chance to outwit authority and prove how damned clever he was. _Not now. _He was forced to acknowledge it, he just felt empty and tired and depressed.

Mossad were taking care of the details, and by midnight, he would be out of the country. No last words or goodbye letters - disappeared in a puff of smoke. He still had his cell and a small bag of clothes but everything else was disposable. All his books and belongings would be abandoned in the loft. He was leaving his life here behind.

Neal had to hand it to Zahavi, the Israeli was super-efficient. All it had taken was a few quick phone-calls and within minutes the whole thing was arranged. Diplomatic clearance and a private jet would get him past airport security. His new passport and papers had been prepared in advance on the assumption he was going to say yes.

Even the anklet… he smiled without humour, they'd hacked into the monitor's signal. As far as the tracking device was concerned, he was tucked away, safe and sound in the loft. For some reason, its loss seemed definitive and he felt strangely bereft without it.

Zahavi came and stood beside him. "We need to leave now, are you ready?"

Neal took a breath and straightened his shoulders. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"If it's any consolation, I think you're doing the right thing, and in time you may come to agree with me. The name of your assignment will be _'Flaming Sword,'_ or _Lahat Kherev_ in Hebrew. Think of it as a kind of reparation, bringing justice to those who have no redress."

"You're never going to let it go."

"Never, for the dead and the living. For if the world should ever forget it, then someday, it will happen again."

Neal thought about the origins of the cargo and his reflections were shaded with sobriety. He'd been dazzled by the beauty of the treasure, but every piece was stained with human blood.

God help him, he was conjuring Kate again, for in the end, she had died for the cargo. First Kate and then so nearly, Peter, the damned loot had brought nothing but pain. He glanced across at Zahavi; the man's last words had been filled with conviction. A deep and abiding assurance he was about to do the right thing. _Just like Peter_ – he smiled a little wryly. It must be nice to be so damned certain and move ahead with such a clear moral-compass, to base your whole life on a distinct set of ethics or a deep-seated code of beliefs.

_Not for him._

He was a chameleon, shifting colour to suit his surroundings. Skimming and dancing in circles, like an autumn leaf blown in the wind. He could transform and adapt in the blink of an eye and dazzle like a bright ray of sunlight, con his way into any institution or lie his way into any woman's bed.

He was all of those things – _had done all of those things_ – so why did the comparison hurt him? Destiny seemed to be mocking him, pulling the rug out from under his feet. The last few years had smudged all the boundaries and burdened him with some kind of conscience. Right now, it didn't feel like a blessing. He was a different man, no longer the same.

All the same, it was proving a hard lesson. He'd been kidding himself, playing dress-up. In his head he'd been feeling inviolable, believing he was still in charge of the game. He wasn't though, the fates had been laughing, and he was faced with a damascene moment. He was toe-to-toe with uncertainty and facing a glut of regrets.

It would be easier if he'd remained in his dissociative fugue - if he'd never recovered his memory. Remembering only brought sorrow, and like the poem, made him feel sad.

"Let's go," Zahavi gestured towards the car, his voice measured and sympathetic. "You need to give me your cell-phone. I'm afraid you'll be leaving it behind."

Neal reached slowly into his pocket, and as if on cue, the cell started buzzing. With one final show of defiance, he brought up caller ID. _Elizabeth Burke,_ he stared down at the name and his air of self-possession deserted him.

"Don't answer it," Zahavi held out his hand. "It's better if you don't prolong things. Once we land safely in Israel, I promise you'll be issued with a new one."

Neal paused, his thumb hovering, but in the end he let the message go to voicemail. He badly wanted to answer her and the impulse was hard to resist. He thought of all the times El had been there for him, always ready with patience and sympathy. He owed her – one last courtesy – he placed the phone next to his ear.

"_Neal, I need you … please come back to the hospital. It's Peter, something terrible happened. The doctors think it might be a blood clot… oh, Neal, I'm so afraid."_

Coldness started spreading like ice through his veins and a bolt of pain lanced straight to the quick of him. Neal looked down at the cell phone in his hand and listened to the message again. In the blink of an eye, in a heartbeat, his whole world had gone spectacularly to hell.

He stared between the cell-phone and Zahavi. So much rested on the next few seconds. If he chose to leave now, it would fill him with guilt and affect him for the rest of his life. Both Elizabeth and Peter… _Peter_ needed him, and he was going to have to stay and face the music. All he cared about was being here for both of them. The fucking cargo was the last thing on his mind.

He sighed and made a final decision. To his surprise, he felt suddenly calmer. As though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he could start to move freely once more. It was probably going to cost him his liberty and mean a good chunk of his life spent wearing orange. He was giving up the chance of a lifetime, but as of now, he didn't give a damn. Someone up there was laughing at him and tossing around his future on a whim.

He looked up at the Israeli and smiled crookedly. There was no mistaking his intention. He pressed the message button on his cell-phone and told El he was on his way. To his credit, Zahavi nodded, he seemed resigned rather than angry. He waited until Neal finished texting and gestured towards the waiting limousine.

"I take it you won't be needing a ride to the airport?"

"No, but I could use one to the hospital. There's one other thing…"

"Ah, yes, the anklet, it ought to go back on again."

"For now," Neal hesitated. "About the cargo - "

"We know you and Haversham have it. The Russians will be sending someone after it. I advise you to watch your backs."

Neal was curious, "What about Israel?"

Zahavi smiled, "If necessary, we'll talk to the Russian government and try to solicit their involvement. They don't particularly like dealing with us, but on the other hand they feel just as passionately about the restitution of stolen Nazi loot. _If necessary_…"

"I didn't actually steal it," Neal felt suddenly ashamed. "If it was up to me, I'd give it back."

Zahavi studied him carefully. "I really believe you would. You know, I meant what I said in the hospital that day – when you listened in on our conversation. A leopard _is _capable of changing his spots, and you, my friend, _can_ do the right thing."

"I wish it were as simple."

Neal thought about Moz, the lack of contact was starting to get worrying. He should have heard something – _anything_ – by now, but there hadn't been a peep out of his friend. If things were normal he would have been hunting him down, putting cautious feelers out on the grapevine, but Moz was like a latter-day Houdini, he could disappear and never be found.

"Haversham?"

Neal shrugged on his game face. "Like I said, I wish it were as simple. There are factors even you aren't aware of. I'm not going to betray a friend."

"_Aren't you?"_

Neal was practised enough not to flinch at those words, but they felt like being doused in cold water. He was faced with the unique dilemma of being stuck in no-man's-land. On the one hand, Moz, on the other hand, Peter, and whoever he chose would be the wrong one. He was screwed – he was truly and royally screwed, between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Consequences, there were always consequences. It was the down-side of having a damned conscience. An affliction he blamed solely on Peter Burke and would gladly be free of again. It was never like this in the old days when the whole world was there for the taking; maybe a Corot in Paris, perhaps a Gainsborough in London, or an Etruscan vase stolen from Rome.

He sighed, it had been a nice pipe-dream, the thought of a new life in Israel. For a brief time it had offered a small gleam of relief and a viable means of escape. He looked up at the New York skyline and saw blue where the rain clouds were clearing. He was staying, whether for good or for ill. He had to find someway out of this mess.

"We _will_ be in touch," Zahavi held out his hand and a small key to reactivate the tracking device. "And then someday when all this is over, when your future is less complicated, then perhaps you'll re-evaluate my offer?"

Neal took the key and the offered hand and considered. In his heart, he already knew the answer. He smiled momentarily, his eyes very bright, and gave a small shake of his head.

"Who knows, if Peter ever grows tired of me…" he paused and thought about El's message. The words hovered, recognised but unspoken. _"Or if Peter winds up dead." _

Zahavi moved across to the limo. "I still owe you that breakfast in Jerusalem. There's a terrace which overlooks the Mount of Olives. A little place which bakes its own croissants… I think you'd like it there." The Israeli's face grew sombre for a second. "Convey my best wishes to Peter Burke, he's a good man, I hope he makes it. Remember what I said about the leopard… change your spots and do the right thing."

* * *

><p>By the time he made it to the hospital, he was frustrated and his head was hurting. It had taken precious minutes to reset the anklet and then he'd had to wait for a cab. Zahavi and the limo were long-gone and he hadn't been surprised in the slightest. Under the awkward state of affairs, he hadn't expected the Israeli to wait. The rush-hour traffic was particularly slow and the grinding journey seemed to take a lifetime. He tried calling El a couple of times but she failed to answer her cell.<p>

_A blood clot._

It didn't sound very good and could mean either a stroke or a heart attack, or some kind of awful embolism blocking an artery or even a lung. He didn't know and there was no point trying to guess. He would discover the truth when he got there. That was if the traffic would speed up a tad or ever get moving again.

_El had sounded…_ he replayed the message. There was no doubt she was scared and panicky. God help him, he had thought they were over the worse and Peter would be okay. He stared blindly through the cab window and reran the last few weeks in his head. For the first time he allowed himself to contemplate what Peter must have gone through in the cellar. The suffering and torture the man had endured because of something he had no real part in.

It was hard to equate the Peter he knew with the man he had seen in the hospital, so godamned smart and sure of his abilities and always totally at ease with the world. _Not any more,_ _though_. Schiller had changed him, the man's cruelty would be hard to eradicate. The Nazi curse had crossed their lives like a shadow and changed them all, truth be told. Peter had looked smaller and fragile, his pale face distorted by bruising. Even his voice had been weaker. The man in the bed was a ghost.

And now this – the final insult.

Neal could almost hear Schiller laughing.

After everything, _everything,_ they'd been through to date, Peter could not die now.

It was no good, he couldn't just sit here, the delay was driving him crazy. He got out five blocks from the hospital and ran through the crowded streets. Just as he reached the main entrance, his cell phone buzzed with another message. He looked at it with some trepidation and then frowned at the name on the screen.

_Moz - _it really_ was _about time.

Neal was filled with relief and anger. He'd been starting to wonder if Moz would ever return. Where the hell had he been until now?

Despite his concern about Peter, he ducked into a corner of the lobby. After everything Schiller had put them through, it was good to know Moz was safe. _Not just safe_ – he was forced to acknowledge. A part of him had started to speculate. _What if Moz had cut and run with the cargo_… the small voice had been insistent in his ear.

'_Would you mind explaining what the hell happened at my storage facility? The whole place is a freakin' crime scene. And I take it you know you're being followed and that your landline to the loft has been tapped?_

_BTW, what did you do to your head?'_

He studied the message and visibly relaxed; Moz's grouching was endearingly familiar. He felt back on recognizable territory again and a wry grin twisted his mouth. Pressing speed-dial he waited for seven rings before cutting the call and dialling again. Moz answered almost immediately and barely gave him a chance to speak.

"Where have you been?"

"Where have_ I_ been?"

"Are we playing a game of twenty questions?"

Neal sighed and curbed a rush of impatience. "Moz, it's been more than three weeks."

"It takes time to make certain arrangements. I've been talking to Hale just like we agreed and then something – or rather someone else cropped up."

"Who?" Neal felt a surge of alarm. He was a little too fraught to play guessing games. "Anyone I know?"

"Yeah, a really old friend of yours, bears a grudge, memory like an elephant. Has a terrible Irish accent and loves to hear the sound of his own voice."

_Matthew Keller_… just swell, it went without saying. Neal felt a sliver of foreboding. It only wanted Keller to come sniffing around to add more danger into the mix. The man would do anything to get what he wanted and for all his pseudo-charm he was a killer. Forging the Degas had caused nothing but trouble and stirred up a lethal hornet's nest.

Mossad, Odessa, the FBI – the Russian mob and now Matthew Keller. It might be funny if it wasn't so deadly; he was beginning to get a really bad headache.

He sighed, "A lot of stuff happened while you were away – a long story, I'll tell you later. Peter's hurt and it doesn't look great. I'm staying at the hospital with El. Meanwhile, steer clear of my apartment. We need to talk before anyone sees you. We'll meet up soon in the usual place and then I'll fill you in on the details."

"Cryptic, I don't like cryptic, and none of this sounds very healthy. Give my best regards to Mrs Suit and don't take too long to call back."

Neal stared down at the cell for some seconds, his forehead creased into little frown lines. He meant what he'd said to Zahavi – he felt torn between Peter and Moz. Him and Moz – they went back decades now and the little guy had always looked out for him, albeit, he was forced to acknowledge, whilst taking good care of himself.

Something was off about Moz's last trip and the re-emergence of Keller. Out of the frying pan into the fire and he didn't like it one bit. It felt as though Moz was cornering him and cutting off all his escape routes, driving him to choose sides and make choices, like a pawn in a game of chess.

_Maybe Moz was afraid of losing him?_

The thought was a little bit startling.

Stealing the loot was a _fait d'accompli_ from which there was no going back.

He didn't have time to consider this now. There were more pressing things to concern him. Like the terrifying tone of El's message and the possibility Peter was dead. _Dead_ – he nearly said it out loud, although his mind shied away from the prospect. The Peter he knew was invincible. There was no way the man would give in. _Especially not now_ – Neal felt desperate, not after the way he had left things. All the words he had carefully avoided when he'd turned on his heel and walked out.

He was tired, so tired of everything. If Peter died, he would call an end to it. He wasn't sure if that meant a desert island with Moz or staying on here to comfort El.

The elevator journey was interminably slow as he got closer to his destination, but at least he was spared from confronting the truth so long as he remained in the car. There was a saying – a stupid-ass saying – so beloved of psycho-babbling businessmen; an elephant is still a damned elephant, no matter how far away. His elephant had looked small from a distance but now it was trampling all over him, getting bigger and scarier every second, and he could no longer hold it at bay.

_There had to be a way_… he_ had_ to get out this mess. It was as though his brain had been paralysed. He was usually so smart, so quick-witted and astute, always one step ahead of the game. _The gunshot wound…_ it was the only conclusion he could draw, the only rational explanation. He was still suffering from the effects of concussion. Things would be clearer in a week or two.

Maybe if he really tried talking to Moz…

He stopped right there, the thought was ludicrous. The U-boat loot was the haul of a lifetime and the little man would never give it up. The walls were narrowing in on him and his last talk with Zahavi seemed prophetic. Whichever way he tried to sugar-coat it, he would end up betraying a friend.

Neal stepped out of the elevator and walked slowly along the corridor. He felt shaky and strangely light-headed and realised he was truly afraid. Leaving Peter had seemed doable on his terms – when he was in control of all the details – so why was the reverse so very frightening?

He was scared stiff of Peter leaving him.

"Neal?"

He jumped when somebody spoke his name and quickly straightened his shoulders. He'd been so wrapped up in a state of fugue he hadn't even been aware of El approaching him. Swallowing hard, his glance raked her for clues, for any sign of the unthinkable. Although pale, she was composed as usual, but her eyes were red-rimmed and sad.

"I came as soon as I could," he was rambling. "I tried to call but couldn't get through to you… I didn't want you to think…" he took a deep breath. "Just tell me Peter's okay?"

"Oh, Neal - " She swayed and he caught hold of her firmly, pulling her close against his chest. "I'm sorry, it's been so awful. He fell and I was so frightened."

"Fell?" Neal frowned and looked down into her face as she led him across to the doorway. "I'm sorry, El, I don't understand. In the message you mentioned a blood clot."

She stood back and composed herself hurriedly. "Peter fell and had some sort of panic attack. The doctors were worried about him. They thought the pain in his chest might be due to a blood clot, but thank god, the tests came back clear."

"A panic attack?" he nearly choked on the words and for a second, he was blindingly angry. He'd nearly killed himself trying to get here in time, feeling terrified Peter was dead. He inhaled steadily. "Peter had a panic attack?"

Elizabeth looked at him searchingly, her keen eyes clearly noting his reaction. "Don't you dare say it like it means nothing. You know Peter – he doesn't do panic. What Schiller did to him… he's really suffering, and right now, he needs our help - " she paused and regarded him tiredly, her obvious worry and fatigue catching up with her. "He _needs_ to find some kind of resolution, maybe a way of understanding why this happened. You met with Anton Schiller – you talked to him – and Peter… Peter needs _you,_ Neal."

_Schiller,_ it all came back to Schiller. The man's evil legacy was chilling. He'd been a master at discovering vulnerabilities, at exploiting them and playing cruel games. Even though he was certain Schiller was dead, Neal couldn't help shivering briefly. His skin rose in a pattern of goose bumps and the hair began to prickle on his neck.

For a moment, he really resented El.

_What gave her the privilege to deceive him?_

The flash of anger was replaced by resignation and recognition he had done the right thing.

His expression narrowed. "Is there any point asking if you knew the tests were clear when you left that message on my cell?"

"None at all."

Neal smiled a little bleakly and acknowledged defeat. El could pull a con like a professional. For a second he wondered how much she knew, had she deduced he was going away?

He shook his head, El was a wonderful woman, but even she wasn't psychic. There was no way she had guessed about Israel. She couldn't know what he'd given-up to be here.

He sighed, not quite willing to let her off the hook so easily. "You know I could still walk away, right?"

"Not this time," she seemed to flash sparks at him. "You don't get to do it to him _this time_. He's _Peter _– and he's always there for us, now it's our turn to be there for him. Please, Neal…" the fight drained out of her. "He's so weak, so broken and hurting. I'm scared because I've never seen him like this. I'm asking you to stay as his friend."

_As his friend._

And that was the truth of it. Not his tame con or his consultant. Not his associate or even his partner…

_At the end of the day, they were friends. _

Neal nodded gravely across at El and the resolve on his face was genuine. He stepped up to the door to Peter's room, turned the handle and walked inside.

_**TBC**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Remember and be Sad**_

_Better by far you should forget and smile, than you should remember and be sad . . ._

_Christina Rossetti 1830-1894_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Part Fifteen <em>**

_A ghost in the bed_… he remembered the words – and that he'd thought they were a tad over-dramatic, but now looking closely at Peter, he thought perhaps he'd underplayed them instead. _Peter was…_ Peter was horribly frail. It was the only candid way of describing him. So pale he seemed to merge with the white cotton sheets and disappear into thin air.

Neal stood there a while and watched as he slept and the lingering dregs of anger drained out of him. In its place came a mixture of concern and unease and the all-pervasive guilt once again. The bruises had faded a shade or two and the facial swelling wasn't quite so shocking, but the IV still dripped with silent monotony into the back of Peter's uncasted hand.

He was supposed to be doing better, starting out on the road to recovery, but he was delicate and almost transparent, as though he was gradually vanishing. No wonder El had been so freaked out. At that moment, Neal heartily forgave her. He was filled with a sudden pang of relief. Thank god, he'd decided to stay.

It was a little like watching a pastiche of some kind – as though the man in the bed was a caricature. Never, not in all his worse nightmares, had he ever envisaged Peter like this. _Peter was_… Peter was sure and strong; he was self-assured and always confident. He was security and all things affirmative and safe… he was never broken like this.

_But he was…_ Anton Schiller had hurt him. In ways Neal could hardly imagine. He knew enough to be certain the bastard had taken pride in his work. Peter was meant to die in the church with no escape and no real hope of rescue, and Schiller had been quite open about it, had made him aware of the fact. Neal shuddered and his chest constricted, the sense of horror was nearly suffocating. For a second, he was down in that cellar and surrounded by despair and darkness, left alone to lie in the stench of his own blood and the constant threat of more pain.

Most men would have given up and died, closed their eyes and succumbed to the inevitable, but Peter Burke had used his wits and intelligence and stubbornly refused to tow the line.

Even so, it had been close.

Almost too close to call. The outcome could have been so very different. Too much had rested on luck, on the flick of a switch, or the activation of Schiller's cell phone. Too much… _Peter's life_… the words stuck in his throat as he realised how much '_too much'_ meant to him. Another minute, if El hadn't called him. Another minute and he would have been gone.

As epiphanies went it felt hollow but the sudden insight struck him like lightning. He was here because he had wanted to stay and that was because he cared. _He cared._ He rolled the words on his tongue. At long last it felt good to admit it. He really _had_ built up a life here, he had prospects, a home, and he had friends.

Peter stirred, muttering restlessly, and his free hand clutched convulsively at the bedclothes. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as his muscles clenched in distress. Neal watched and realised he was needed here. Some things were just too important. There would be time enough for facing his problems once he knew Peter would recover.

Neal sighed and wondered when the man in the bed had become so very important, but it always came back to Peter and the way they had danced around each other. Even back in the very beginning when the whole world still seemed like his oyster. Maybe he'd sensed the wind of change in the air when he'd first heard a glimmer of the name. _Peter Burke,_ the Bureau's new hot-shot, and from that moment, his life was fuelled on high octane. Burke was often only one-step behind him and the whole thing became a dangerous kind of sport. It was funny and then really annoying – after a while, it became fascinating. A strange bond was growing between them. It was the link between predator and prey.

Peter Burke became his new project and Neal studied the man like a painting, all the facets and grooves and brushstrokes which defined him and made him unique. He was smart with a head for numbers but so were a million other guys. Burke had something – an intelligent awareness which gave him a keener edge. He could have gone on and made a fortune. Become corporate and climbed the business ladder. However Burke had an innate sense of justice which had compelled him to join the FBI. It was this which piqued Neal's attention – his pursuer was an anomaly.

In another life, Burke could have been a player and made an easy fortune on Wall Street. He could have owned a penthouse loft in Manhattan and had the world at his wealthy fingertips. Instead, he was a man with a mortgage and a dog, a company car and a middle-income town-house. He wore two-for-one suits and unimaginative ties… but he was married to one hell of a wife.

The beautiful sparkling Elizabeth Burke was a real shock to the system. An indication there was so much more to Mister Burke then a stubborn jaw and pair of sharp brown eyes.

He had known all along – had sensed it.

Peter was different, was special. There was an air of solidarity about him and more than that, a very real integrity. He was an anchor holding fast to a drifting boat or a safe port after turbulent seas. Nonetheless, he was disturbingly human as the whole mess with Schiller had just proven. He was as capable of stumbling and needing a friend, of falling down flat on his face. _He could be taken…_ Neal leaned back against the doorframe, _taken away in the blink of an eye. _

"Don't touch me - "

Peter's voice was anguished and ragged and he beat his head against the pillow. He was clearly in the throes of a nightmare – in the grip of a horrific dream.

_This was not good,_ Neal took a final glance at the door, but it was less than a half-hearted gesture. He had no intention of running this time but old habits were hard to break.

"It's okay," he braced his shoulders and moved across to the bedside, taking hold of Peter's casted hand. "It's over, you're safe now, buddy. Just rest easy, everything's okay."

To his surprise, Peter responded and the restless twitching ceased almost immediately. His breath shuddered out in a long staccato sigh and he curled his fingers into Neal's palm. The simplicity of the gesture was poignant and overwhelmingly trusting. For the first time since that ill-fated day in the park Neal broke and felt suddenly weak. The pressure in his chest had been building until a point where it was almost suffocating – from the day he'd first woken in the hospital and slipped the mask back over his face.

_Be strong… cowboy up and save Peter_… the hits continued piling up on each other. And then his meeting with the monstrous Schiller and re-living his grief over Kate.

He'd been lost, sucked into a vacuum, and the gunshot wound had merely compounded things. No wonder he'd agreed to Zahavi's deal. It had seemed the only means of escape.

He dipped his head low and held onto Peter's fingertips. Right now they seemed like a lifeline. The bruised skin was warm and paper dry as he held them up to his face. Angling in, he leaned his cheek against the wrist, at the point where a pulse should be beating. He imagined the slow rhythm through the fibreglass cast. Peter was right here… _he was alive_. He took a breath as his own heart-rate settled and the thought of ever leaving seemed incredible. It was time for some major decisions. However shaky, his future was here.

"Neal?" Peter's voice was unsteady and he sounded confused, a faint shadow of his former self. "Better not let El catch you, she might get the wrong idea."

Neal replaced Peter's hand very carefully on the sheet. His voice was almost composed when he answered. "There's no need to worry, she's cool with it. She's the one who press-ganged me here."

"Press-ganged, huh?"

Had he imagined it or had there been a hint of wistfulness in Peter's tone. Trouble was, they were so used to skating around the real issues and hiding the truth behind sarcasm – just lately it was hard to be sincere. Neal straightened his shoulders wearily and leaned back at an angle in the chair.

"She's worried, I guess we all are. She called me and I came back immediately. That little fall you took earlier, you gave us all quite a scare."

Peter grimaced and looked a little guilty. "I didn't mean to upset her. She's been through enough as it is."

"We all have, but you bore the brunt of it, and that's why she's been so shaken. Her husband was held and tortured; it's going to take her a while to deal."

"She's going to need support - "

"She's got it. Your team have all been rallying around and her mother's arriving tomorrow. Satchmo's been well taken care of and I… well, that's why I'm here."

"It's good you're here for Elizabeth."

"_No,"_ Neal interrupted him fiercely. "I'm not just here for Elizabeth. I'm here for you too, because I want to be, and besides, we need to talk about Schiller."

Peter closed his eyes and turned his head away on the pillow. "We really don't need to do that. The matter's closed, I have nothing to say."

"Peter - "

"No. Schiller's dead, end of subject."

"Clearly not," Neal was well and truly concerned, he'd never seen Peter like this. "You more than anyone know how this goes. We both have to make peace with it."

"There's no such thing as '_peace with it_," Peter spat out the statement. "The day I stop remembering what that man did to me…" he took a ragged breath, "let's just say I don't want to forget."

Neal understood, "I get what you're saying, I really do, you need to hold onto the anger. But you have to learn how to control it - to get the bastard out of your head."

"What makes you think he's still in there?"

"Oh, I don't know," Neal closed his eyes briefly and tapped the side of his own head. "Maybe because I know exactly how you're feeling. Schiller was a master torturer – both physically and psychologically. He was adept at scenting blood in the water and homing in on his prey. He was smart like that – the worse kind of cruel, both creative and carefully considered. Like a chess player, cold and calculating. Always one step ahead of the game."

"It was El, he told me he'd hurt her. That he wouldn't hesitate to kill her. Once he had the cargo, he'd leave her alone. He would finish me and then she'd be safe."

Neal had a sudden image of Schiller with El and the subsequent impression wasn't pleasant. The man had been the devil incarnate and the twisted vision made him feel sick. It must have been pure agony for Peter and far worse than the physical torture.

He swallowed, "The guy could read people, sense their weak-spots and pick at them like a scab."

Peter looked up at him slowly and his expression seemed abstracted, almost lost. "Schiller once told me the definition of torture; '_the art of killing a man without his dying.' _Sometimes it feels as though he was right. As though a part of me is actually dead."

Neal shivered and the room went suddenly cold as Peter's words struck home with a chilling resonance. Schiller might not have hurt him physically, but the man's words still rang in his head. _'A man like you wouldn't give up a fortune in art just to save Peter Burke's life.'_

A man like you… _a man like you_… the words still twisted inside him. Like a flaming arrow fired straight at his heart… oh, yeah, Schiller had been good at his job.

Neal pressed his eyelids tightly together. _Could it be he was really that obvious?_ Somehow Schiller had seen through him easily. The man had disassembled him effortlessly. All his fears and defences stripped bare. He took a deep breath – this was not about him, and Peter was still achingly vulnerable. He centred himself and reopened his eyes and looked down at the man in the bed.

"Schiller chose you as leverage for a reason. Guess he knew it would be hard to break you. But it was never about you as a person. You were simply a means to an end."

"Not helping if you're trying to be comforting."

"This isn't about trying to comfort you. It's more about being pragmatic. If you're not, then he'll haunt you forever. You can't let the bastard win. Fight back like you did in that cellar. _By the way, neat trick with the light-switch_. We beat him, Peter, _we_ kicked his Nazi ass. He's the one who ended up dead."

"It was a pure fluke the wiring was suspect and the light switch was over fifty years old."

"Fluke or not, you took it out of his hands. He no longer held all the aces. Not exactly the actions of a broken man. When fate gave you the chance, you fought back."

"Whatever happened, I was never getting out of there. Schiller told me that quite openly. I had a choice – lie back and die quietly, or take a crazy risk and try and escape."

"Always with the crazy risks, huh?"

Neal smiled but his heart was breaking as he envisaged the nightmare prospect in the cellar. The knowledge of certain and unpleasant death or a slender hope of escape. Peter had made no mention of his injuries, but they must have been excruciating. He'd pinned his faith on an ancient light-switch when the outlook had been bleak to say the least.

"You know me," Peter kept his voice nonchalant as he tried to reply in kind. "I like to live on the edge." He paused for a second when the words fell flat and then cleared his throat conversationally. "Did you know I thought you were dead?"

"What?" Neal was stunned into exclamation.

"Schiller told me they'd gunned you down in the park. Shot you and left you for dead. Except his goons didn't know it was you, of course, just some unfortunate agent I was with."

"So the whole time he was trying to broker a deal - as far as you were concerned, I was dead?"

"He thought you'd made a run for it, taken the cargo, and abandoned me to deal with the consequences. He was positive we were in it together – that I'd been tempted by the lure of all that loot."

"But you put him straight?"

"He wouldn't have it. Then he told me he'd arranged to meet you. By that stage I wasn't sure if he was bluffing. If he was playing games with my head."

"Peter…" Neal's voice was husky. "Peter… I…"

"It's all right," Peter held his gaze steadily. "I realised pretty soon, you must be okay. Like the proverbial cat with nine lives."

"A leopard," Neal murmured under his breath, "not just any cat, but a leopard." He met Peter's eyes intently. "If you'd told Schiller, it would have been over."

"But I didn't… and therefore, it wasn't. We both made it out and turned the tables. It's what partners usually do for one another. Stick together through thick and thin."

"Thick and thin, huh?"

"That's what they say in theory – and I'm too tired to talk about the cargo. Both of us know it's still out there - " he paused and looked up at Neal slowly and deliberately. "Who_ actually_ stole it is purely semantics, so I'm only going to say this one more time. This isn't the way you should be living your life. You need to man up and do the right thing."

Peter broke off abruptly and held onto his chest as a series of racking coughs overwhelmed him. They stretched into a nasty paroxysm and the colour seemed to fade from his face. He struggled to sit forward in obvious pain as the wretched spasms shuddered through his body. Neal watched anxiously as the bout stretched on and was in two minds to ring for the nurse.

"No," Peter gasped and took a deep breath, "Leave it, there's no need to bother them." His chest heaved as he fought and strove for air. "It's all right, I _will_ be okay."

"You're not okay."

"But I _will_ be. Neal, I can understand why you and El worry…"

"Then why can't you just let us help you?"

"Because I need to get through this myself."

Neal paused, he understood in a way, in-spite of his latent anxiety. It was hard to start relying on others when you were used to taking care of yourself. It must be doubly tough if you were Peter, so accustomed to being in charge. It was funny how one took things for granted, and Peter's strength was something he depended on. To see him here so wounded and vulnerable had pulled the rug from under his feet.

He grew up a little, right then and there. It was time for some role reversal. He would stay here for as long as Peter needed him. The cargo would have to wait.

He spoke levelly, "You don't always have to be the strong one."

Peter looked grateful, "Believe me, I know that, I'm not trying to be some kind of hero. I need to process – to come to terms with things – reach a conclusion and then file it away. I have good people, _good friends_ in my corner. Just don't… don't force me to take it to committee, I can't handle any pseudo touchy-feely crap. It isn't the way I do things. I have to deal in my own way."

He concentrated hard, and his breathing slowed down. The whole process was a painful effort. Neal sat back and said nothing but the look on his face spoke reams.

Peter sighed, and gave him a watered down glare. "Neal, stop it, there's no need to look like that. I'm not crazy, this didn't break me. Well, maybe it broke me a little bit, but it's nothing that can't be fixed." He hesitated and the glare didn't waver. If anything, it sharpened and grew stronger. "So long as I know that you'll be here for El. Right now, she needs good friends around her."

"And Schiller?"

"I won't let him beat me. Losing to scum like that isn't an option. All I'm asking for, all I_ need_ right now, is some time and space to think."

Peter wavered, and flopped back against the pillow, looking drained and suddenly exhausted. Neal studied him and realised something had changed. Peter might still be unnervingly weak but for the first time he seemed more at peace.

Just for a second, Neal had an image of the leopard, and he could swear it was smiling with approval. It blinked at him with oddly familiar eyes as it shifted position in the tree. Not real, but the cat had a life of its own, running wild through his shifting consciousness. It was a fantasy – no, better make that a metaphor – conjured up by his overwrought mind. He knew that, of course, _he knew that…_ it was a figment of his imagination, but kind of strange that after everything he'd been through, it seemed real and uncannily precise.

The leopard regarded him with total disdain and sharpened his claws on the tree trunk. With a sinuous contraction of muscle and fur it leapt indolently down from the branches. The spots on its back seemed to ripple and change right before Neal's very eyes.

He gave a mock-frown and hooked an arm around his knee. He sensed it was time to change the subject. "Did you know recent studies have shown that contrary to previous thinking, the strong silent types tend to suffer far less from PTSD than all the touch-feely, therapy junkies?"

"So what's the punch-line?" Peter asked sleepily and a little warily.

"Depends on your definition of strong and silent."

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><p>Peter awoke with a small jump and opened his eyes as a siren wailed past in the distance. Other than Satchmo he was alone in the courtyard. The evening sun was warm on his face and he basked in the mellow light. Looking down at his watch, he grimaced slightly. It was yet another afternoon wasted. His intention had been to catch-up with some work but he'd nodded off once again. He looked at the stack of unopened files and shook his head in rueful acceptance. Despite all his best intentions, it seemed his body had other ideas.<p>

He couldn't recall ever being this tired. Every day he was permanently sleepy. Perfectly natural, according to the doctors, and nature's way of helping him to heal.

He'd been recovering at home for two weeks now, after four long weeks stuck in the hospital, but his progress remained slow and painful and he still felt appallingly weak. _Not surprising_… they were careful to inform him. He'd taken one hell of a battering. His injuries had been life-threatening and broken bones took a while to repair.

There was a slight noise behind him and his head whipped around, but nobody was standing in the doorway. It took a while for his rigid muscles to relax and his heart rate to get back to normal. It was simply the effects of heat upon wood and the weathered deck contracting in the sun.

Peter took a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

No-one was there and Satchmo would have warned him. He was alone in the leafy courtyard. No-one other than his own watchful outline stretched out on the wooden deck. It was finished, Schiller _really_ was dead. He was home and his injuries were healing. El was safe… they were both recovering, and everything was going to be okay. He'd never actually believed in ghosts but it seemed as though the Nazi loot was haunting him. The damned case had wormed into his psyche and worked its way under his skin. All those deaths at the hands of such evil… and in his own way he was yet another victim. The curse of the loot tainted everyone like a dark shadow staining their souls.

He shivered again as the moment passed. It wasn't like him to be so fanciful, but those few days as Schiller's prisoner had made him re-evaluate his future. Everything was brighter and keener than before. He was so grateful for all of his blessings. Life seemed fragile, more infinitely valuable, like the first sparkling light of dawn.

Life and all the people he cared for.

Anton Schiller had been right about him. The bastard had aimed straight at the core of him and summed him up in a sentence or two. _"A man like you, Peter, I can tell you're not too afraid for yourself but you are scared of letting others down. What frightens you most is the thought of this happening to someone you care about. Neal Caffrey's a possibility, but not as much as your lovely wife." _

_Spot on,_ goddam him, _in so many ways,_ and the reason he'd been so effective, he had a warped and uncanny instinct for reading his victims minds.

_Elizabeth__,_ it was all about El, and every precious thing she'd ever meant to him. It was still tender and reaffirming between them and he was filled with a deep sense of gratitude. In the face of some huge and almost overwhelming odds, she was here beside him, safe and alive. He wasn't stupid and by no means insensitive. He caught glimpses in unguarded moments. It was there sometimes when she watched him, a brief flicker of fear in her eyes.

If El had been taken by Schiller, he'd have been the one going crazy. He could only imagine her anguish and pain. She'd been through her own private hell.

_Not just him._

Schiller had hurt her too. Had caused her distress - made her suffer. In many ways, those ghosts were harder to deal with and refused to be chased from his head. Even today she'd been reluctant to meet with a client despite the chance of a lucrative contract. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince her to leave him alone. Peter rubbed his forehead tiredly. It was all horribly ironic. When she'd left he'd felt a surge of anxiety and automatically reached out for the phone.

For a minute he'd been tempted to call her. Just for a minute, his hand had been suspended. He'd waited for his nerves to stop rattling and then placed the cell down on the table.

It was over.

They had to get on with their lives. To pick up their old routines again. Then the memories and shadows would lessen and fade. Things would get back to normal in the end.

_Normal,_ Peter smiled a little wistfully. Lately the concept seemed pretty elusive. He'd rather forgotten what 'normal' entailed when applied to his own chequered life.

Since that difficult day in the hospital, Neal had been quietly attentive. He'd done their shopping, walked Satchmo, played babysitter, and been wonderfully supportive of El. Things between him and Neal were easier now but neither one of them ever mentioned the U-boat. Although off limits, it was a barrier between them, like a sword hanging over their heads.

Every day he grew more aware of it and it made him feel very uneasy. In reality nothing was mended. It had merely been put on hold. Schiller had turned out to be a wild card or a temporary stay of execution, and if Neal had really been preparing to run then Odessa had called a halt to the proceedings. Any bid for freedom or plan to escape had been deferred or simply postponed.

He realised with a sudden jolt of sadness, there was no happy ending to this story. Nothing was complete or concluded and Neal's fate still hung in the balance. He mused again on that day in the hospital when they'd come to a kind of understanding. For some reason he'd found it hard to admit that for a while, he'd thought Neal was dead. _Gunned down_… even now the image hurt him, somehow it was seared on his memory, and if Neal was still bound and determined to run, Peter knew he'd be losing a friend.

If only they weren't so damned cagey.

It would be good to talk things through openly and reach some kind of resolution. If Neal was prepared to meet him half way, a little honesty would be kind of nice.

_A little honesty…_ Peter shook his head despondently. The words didn't seem to figure in Neal's universe. A little honesty would mean betraying Moz and confessing they knew the manifest existed. There were little hints he'd managed to pick up on. Nothing concrete, but his sharp eyes hadn't missed them. He was certain Neal had regained his memory despite being a tad off his game.

_It was the way he talked about Schiller_. It was like looking into a mirror. Peter knew that same sense of disquiet and fear. As though the man's words had branded his brain.

If he remembered Anton Schiller, he remembered it all. Right down to the tiniest detail. Nothing would have skipped by unnoticed by a man as intelligent as Neal. The fact he'd neglected to mention it simply compounded Peter's suspicions. _A cat with nine lives_… the analogy was correct. Neal had certainly bounced back from this one. His head was well and truly back in the game and Peter knew he shouldn't harbour any illusions. The U-boat was still an invisible line over which neither one of them could cross.

A cat…

_What was it Neal had said?_

Peter racked his brains for an instant. A domestic pet didn't quite cut it. Neal had gone for the exotic alternative and opted for a leopard instead.

"A leopard," he said the words softly, and thought about it, a small smile lilting his lips. "Of course, I should have guessed it was a leopard. '_Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?'_ I know for sure it comes from the Bible, from Jeremiah 13." Satchmo opened his eyes and whined in response as Peter reached down and scratched his ear. "What do you reckon, think he can do it, Satch? Think Neal really_ can_ change his spots?"

If Satch knew, he wasn't telling, perhaps he was a part of the conspiracy. He snuffled his nose into Peter's hand and gave him a hang-dog look.

"Not that I'd expect you to spill," Peter chided him with mock-severity. "You've always been his compadre and I suspect you're just a little on his side."

His chain of thoughts was suddenly broken as his cell buzzed beside him on the table-top. He picked it up feeling frustrated the abrupt noise could still make him jump. Staring down at the screen, he hesitated. The number was not one he recognised. He waited another couple of rings and then held the cell up to his ear.

"Who is this?"

"_Shalom,_ Agent Burke, you sound a lot better. I was relieved to hear you were recovering."

"What do you want, Zahavi?"

"I thought you deserved an update. My sources have received some intelligence I was sure you might like to hear."

Peter paused for a beat and then took a deep breath. Whatever it was, he knew he should listen. "Go on."

"There's a lot of interest in Moscow right now at the possibility of a particular restitution. A lot of the art on that U-boat was looted from Russian museums. Sadly, rumours have a nasty way of spreading, and not all the attention is official. A lot of bribery and even more vodka… and the Russian Mob have very big ears."

His heart sank, "Are the Mob looking here in New York?"

"Not yet, but it won't take long. They're already asking questions. My sources say they're seeking to recruit a middleman to procure the cargo on their behalf."

A nightmare, it was a never-ending nightmare, with no escape and no resolution. Just when he'd felt the first glimmers of hope, the damned loot raised its ugly head again. He was consumed with a blaze of anger – so white-hot it was blinding in intensity – but in a way, also strangely cathartic as it cleared the last ghosts from his brain.

_Neal_ – Neal had done this – whether intentionally or by some twisted loyalty. It didn't matter the hell if he'd stolen the loot, he was guilty by association. First Odessa and now the Russians, it seemed that everyone was after the cargo. The Nazi plunder was soaked red with blood and someone would end up dead. In a macabre kind of way it was funny. It felt like he was spinning in circles, being dragged back to the very beginning so the whole thing could play out again.

"There's something else you should know about," Zahavi was uncannily compassionate. As though he sensed what Peter was feeling and sought to help alleviate his pain. "All the time you were Schiller's prisoner I was very impressed with Caffrey. Despite his injuries and obvious split-loyalties, he seemed focused on saving your life."

"Zahavi - "

"Please, Agent Burke, you need to hear this. Once you were safely in the hospital, I realised Caffrey was unsure of his future. I say this with zero repentance. I offered him a means of escape."

"A means of escape?"

"A way out of the country and a place on my team. No questions and very few repercussions until my people could strike a deal with your government. Until then, I would make good use of his skills, and eventually, he would be free."

"Or dead?"

Zahavi laughed in grim acknowledgment, "Our type of work is not without risks."

"So what stopped him from taking you up on this once in a lifetime offer?

Peter was intentionally sarcastic, but the words stuck a little in his throat. Zahavi's revelation had thrown him off kilter and their conversation seemed highly surreal. Neal had been offered a get-out-of-jail card so why the hell hadn't he taken it?

"Don't you know, Agent Burke?" The question was loaded and Zahavi's tone was genuinely quizzical. "It was the day you had a set-back in the hospital. Your wife called with an urgent message. Caffrey stayed behind because of you."

_Because of him._

That day when he'd fallen in the bathroom, when Schiller's ghost had returned to torment him. Neal had been on the threshold of freedom, but El had called, and he'd chosen them instead.

It felt huge; no… better make that enormous. Because of him, Neal had burned all his bridges. No escape, no diplomatic assistance, he had elected to help out a friend. Peter passed a hand over his eyes and discovered he was shaking a little. The aftershock of that day was still powerful and something he would never forget.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"So you can see things clearly, and understand why you should help him. He needs to learn from someone smart and compassionate, and then perhaps he can begin to help himself."

"Helping himself has never been a problem," Peter responded dryly.

Zahavi laughed heartily, "Touché."

Peter sobered, "You really think he wants my kind of help?"

"He's lost, trapped in some kind of limbo. Doesn't know who the hell he's supposed to be, but no longer the man he was."

"I'm an agent, the guy who arrested him. I won't compromise that position."

"He knows, and that's partly why he trusts you. You set parameters, and yet, you still look out for him. If you doubt it, remember the forgery and the meeting he had with Schiller. He risked his life and sacrificed his freedom. One only takes those steps for a true friend."

Whether by design or accident their connection was suddenly severed. Peter sat frozen for a minute or two and stared down at his silent cell. To say Zahavi's words had come as a shock was something of an understatement. Well, okay, he added a caveat; maybe shock was a slight exaggeration, but he still couldn't quite get his head around the thought of Neal staying for him.

_There was hope. _

At the close of the day, there was hope, in the middle of all the anguish and trauma. A little light at the end of the tunnel that it hadn't been for nothing in the end.

He sat back, and the evening sun warmed his face. It felt like a benediction. He wasn't dumb enough to see this as a breakthrough, but by heaven, it felt like a start. Whether or not Neal realised the fact, he was forging ties and building relationships. When given the choice of friendship or freedom, then the former had won through in spades.

There was still the little matter of the cargo, but he felt better than he had done in quite a while. It didn't feel like a lost cause any longer and a sense of peace stole through his veins.

In another hour, El would be home. He had a lot that he wanted to tell her. Of course, being El, she would give him _that_ smile and inform him she'd known all along.

_**THE END**_

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><p><em><strong>Lisa Paris - 2012<strong>_


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